The Case of the Three Brothers
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Three days before his wedding, Dr Watson runs into trouble. Will he make it to the church in time? And why is Mycroft acting strangely? Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to make sense of the confusion... if someone doesn't try to stop him first! COMPLETE!
1. Chapter One

**Sherlock Holmes is the singular and exceptional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

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_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter One: An Encounter in Bloomsbury**

The year 1888 I remember as one being dominated, first and foremost, by women. For some there were beginnings, as in my own felicitous state of matrimony; for others, endings, in the wave of bloody slayings that brought terror to the inhabitants of Whitechapel and many beyond. Even Holmes did not escape this feminine onslaught unscathed, and it was some time before the case that involved _the_ woman was able to pass mention without eliciting either a frown or a wince from my normally saturnine friend.

However, that afternoon, a mere three days from the date of my wedding, my thoughts were on anything other than the fair sex, and not even the comely freckled face of a laughing red-headed woman could generate enough interest on my part to spare her a second glance. I do not fancy myself a Don Juan, despite what Holmes might hold about my natural advantages with our female clients, a fact I attribute entirely to an unfortunate remark I once made – which incautiously appeared in print – about my former experiences with women over many nations and many continents. I contend that much has been misread into what I considered at the time an innocuous comment – and no end of trouble, from many and varied quarters.

However, I will readily confess that I am not immune to the charms of a pretty face, and certainly this Titan-haired beauty would have stood out in any gathering of handsome women. What caught my interest was the brief impression I had of the sizeable man she was embracing, or at any rate, attempting to do so, for her arms could not adequately encircle his girth. A great bear of a man, fully six feet tall, although his bulk made him appear larger, flabby of jowl and, one suspected, of other parts best concealed by his dark coat, he fairly towered over his paramour so that she had to stretch up on tiptoe to kiss his florid thread-veined cheek.

This was clearly a tender lovers' farewell if ever there was one, and while in certain parts of the capital such open displays of fondness are frowned upon, here in the shabbier part of Bloomsbury such matters were treated with rather more tolerance. One strives to exercise the greatest discretion in such circumstances, although on this occasion, I fear I was found somewhat wanting in this respect. I walked passed them, feeling my jaw growing ever slacker and staring rather more openly than was proper, and bumped into an elderly woman carrying a basket of flowers coming in the other direction. She clicked her tongue and muttered something ungracious, although whether about me or the embracing couple I could not say.

The effect of this was to startle the pair from their affections in the realisation that they were not alone. I darted down the nearest steps and into the darkened area below as the man glanced over his shoulder to investigate the cause of the commotion. From above came the sound of muffled voices, a final yet tender farewell, and then the bulky shadow of the man passed above my head as he set out down the street.

I dared not move for a full minute for fear that he might look back and see me emerging from my hiding place. Explaining to any irate gentleman why I had been caught in such an awkward situation would be difficult enough; trying to explain myself to the brother of Sherlock Holmes why I had been apparently spying on him had only less attraction than the prospect of putting my head into a hungry lion's mouth.

That it had been Mycroft Holmes I was certain as I watched his broad back retreat down the road. What surprised me was less what he was doing – how a man conducts himself in private is his own business, after all – but rather _where_ he was doing it. Only several months before, when I had met his brother for the first time during the affair of the Greek Interpreter, Holmes had given me to believe that his sibling lived a most sedentary life, alternating between Whitehall and Pall Mall with very little variation. Clearly, that statement was now called into question.

From what I had seen, I had to conclude that either Holmes was lying to me or he was unaware of his brother's 'other' interests. I did not entirely discount the first; Holmes often lied by omission when it suited him to do, and I was not so dull-witted as to imagine that he had censored certain details about his family during the course of our earlier investigation.

That he had offered the information quite freely, however, without any prompting, led me to believe that what he had said was close enough to the truth as he saw it for me to take him at his word. If he did know about the existence of this woman, it was unlikely that he would have mentioned her to me. There are some matters touching blood that are better kept within the bounds of family and not made general knowledge, even to intimate acquaintances.

As plausible as this explanation was, it did not sit happily with either my slight knowledge of the gentleman or the setting for this encounter. The area had seen better days, and the blackened Georgian terraces slumped against each other like so many drunkards leaning against their fellows for support. The curtains were grimy, the steps unwashed, and the interior, one supposed, as lacking in the opulent comforts of the Diogenes Club as was possible to find. It was the sort of place one might expect to find pigeons in the rafters, rats in the skirting and fleas in the bed, rooms only countenanced when either down on one's luck or trying to hide a secret from friends and family.

It was not too much a stretch of the imagination to narrow the cause of this furtive behaviour to the object of his affections, an attractive woman undoubtedly, but somewhat less than a lady. A man with a position in Whitehall and an office of responsibility had to be seen to be above reproach in all matters, including his personal affairs. Holmes undoubtedly would have disapproved; we had seen enough men threatened with blackmail over slighter matters than this.

All things considered, I was fast arriving at the inescapable conclusion that Holmes did not know of his brother's personal affairs. If so, he would not learn of them from me.

With Mycroft Holmes long vanished, I pulled up my collar against the chill blast of wind from the unseasonal turn of the weather and set off towards Holborn, keeping alert for a passing cab. As usual, when one is most in need, ready transport never presents itself until too late to be of much use. My own spirits were not particularly high, plagued as I was by throbbing in my weak leg, and I admit I was distracted by my thoughts, so that for the second time that day I had the misfortune to run full into another pedestrian.

This fellow, an insolent man in a loud checked-suit with a pox-scarred face and lip twisted up into a permanent grin, made no attempt to disengage himself from our collision, but rather seemed intent on making a nuisance of himself by standing firmly in my way. Then it was that I became aware of another man behind me, and it began to dawn on me that the street was otherwise empty and dusk was beginning to draw in. I gathered I was about to be parted from my money and valuables, and could only curse myself the lack of attention which had landed me in this devilish mess.

"Now look here," I said, "get out of my way, won't you?"

The man with scarred face smirked, his lip lifting into something approximating the leer of a cathedral gargoyle. "Not so fast," said he, easily blocking my attempts to get past him. "Would you be Dr John Watson?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

"Dr John Watson what had a brother, name of Harry?"

My soul sank. The mention of my now deceased elder brother rarely boded well, especially when his name came up in the presence of ruffians such as these. "Yes, Henry Watson was my brother."

This affirmation pleased him. "Well, now, that's more like it," said he in what now I recognised as a pronounced Liverpudlian accent. "What wi'you being all hostile, like, and we having a mutual acquaintance in your brother, we didn't know what to think and us only trying to make sure we got the right fella, like. Ain't that right, Bert?" Behind me, Bert, unsmiling, arms folded, standing solid and immoveable as granite, made a grudging grunt of agreement. "Our boss, Mr Bulstrode, he don't have time for mistakes, see. It makes things so much easier if we get the right man from the get-go in matters such as these."

"Matters such as what?"

"The small matter of a gambling debt."

I suspected as much. Henry had left very little at his death, save the clothes he stood up in, a pawn ticket for our father's watch and a mountain of unpaid bills. Of this legacy, the clothes had been buried with him, and the watch and the bills had come to me. His legitimate expenses were onerous enough, but these so-called debts of honour were crippling and far too frequent for my liking.

"See, last time he was at Aintree," this would-be collector of debts went on almost apologetically, "your brother, Harry, backed a couple of lame nags. Now, he weren't to know their next stop'd be knacker's yard. We've all done it, Dr Watson, and a lapse o'judgement's not to be held against any man. Thing was, in your brother's case, he borrowed the money from Mr Bulstrode to do it, like, and Mr Bulstrode, well, he's a gambling man an'all, but he don't like to be outta pocket."

"How much?" I asked wearily.

"Oh, I'm glad you understand, sir. Makes things so much more agreeable, like, and me and Bert, we don't like having to rough up good people, o'cause of a debt. Now, in Harry's case, the sum in question is £100 10s and 6d."

I caught my breath. The amount was far beyond what I could afford, even at the best of times.

"Seeing as how you're to be getting hitched in a couple o'days, let's forget about the odds and make it a round hundred pounds," the fellow said affably. "And you have it ready the day after tomorrow. What wi'you having other things on your mind, you don't want to be worrying about this on your wedding day. Best settle it before, like."

"I'm not sure I can raise that amount by then," I admitted.

His face fell. "I'm right sorry to hear that, Doctor," said he. "We'd hate for you to have to miss your wedding, only we've got our instructions, see. You pay up or we have to give you a beating. We don't want to have to do that, what with you being an old soldier and having a pretty lass waiting for you, but we can't make an exception. Well, if we did, people'd be saying me and Bert were going soft or somemat. Now, what's it to be?"

I glanced at Bert, and wondered what chance I would stand against such a large, brawny fellow. It was the way he ground a fist into his palm with grim determination that finally convinced me not to be quite so honest about my financial problems and to adopt a more diplomatic tack.

"I'll do what I can."

The fellow clumped me heartily on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Doctor."

"Where will I find you?"

"Oh, don't you be worrying yourself 'bout that," said he, smoothing down my rumpled sleeve. "We'll find you, won't we, Bert? Good at finding people, we are. Lucky, you might say. That's how we found you, by seeing your name in the paper, like. There I was, reading the announcements and there was your name, Doctor, so I says to Bert: 'You reckon that might'n be Harry's brother what owed Mr Bulstrode that money?' And he says to me: 'Reckon so, Fred.' And so here we are and here you are."

"Most fortunate."

"Well, Doctor, now that's cleared up, we'll be getting on. You don't want to be hanging about round here; there's some very funny people about. Good day, Dr Watson. We'll be seeing you… soon."

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_**Oo-er! What was Mycroft up to? And Dr Watson, get that money quick! Those ruffians sound like they mean business!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Two!**_


	2. Chapter Two

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Two: An Inspector Calls**

I returned home in the gathering gloom to find our rooms in darkness and the air rich with the miasmic fumes of Holmes's tobacco. Entering the inspissated atmosphere from the clean, cool outdoors was something of a stifling experience, so much so that I fell to coughing and was obliged to throw open the window. The sudden rush of the freshening breeze caused the assorted litter of newspaper cuttings to flutter from chairs and tables, and fall confetti-like onto an already paper-carpeted floor.

I breathed deeply, cleared my lungs and looked around for him. He was lying, supine, on the sofa, eyes half-closed, his commonplace book on the floor beside him, the scissors where he had dropped them into a pot of glue and his fingers near black from many hours contact with newsprint. I gathered his day had been sufficiently busy to occupy his restless mind without recourse to outside stimulants – something for which I was heartily thankful – with the result that he was now either in a state of mental exhaustion or had lapsed into ennui and was giving due consideration to his next course of action.

As it was, he regarded me somewhat languidly, although comprehensively, from behind a haze of blue smoke and I gathered that he was about to make some pronouncement as to my recent activities. I was not disappointed.

"I dare say Stamford's refusal to assist at your forthcoming nuptials may be counted as a disappointment," he remarked, "but another postponement while you recover from the chill to which you shall surely succumb from this rash and prolonged exposure to our coarse London air may give your bride cause to question your commitment."

"It will do nothing of the sort," I said, rather harshly.

Irritating as this habit of probing my innermost thoughts was, more so was his tendency to light upon the nature of those worries that were lately my constant companions. It was true we had twice had to rearrange the date of the wedding, due first to the sudden closure of the church following the collapse of the roof and then arising from the untimely demise of the incumbent at our second choice. Holmes knew this well enough, and had at the time been ungracious enough to talk of ours being an 'ill-starred' match. That he referred to it now was in the worst possible taste and did little to improve my mood.

"As for the window, I shall close it again when the fog in here clears. How you can breathe in this atmosphere is a mystery to me."

"It has taken many hours of careful cultivation," said he.

"Forgive me for saying that you could have spent your time more profitably."

"I have nothing particular to occupy me at the moment. I thought you would consider this preferable to the alternative."

"Certainly, I do."

He sat up, shedding scraps of papers like so much ash from his clothes in his wake. "Although I should confess to an ulterior motive. This room with its fog, as you call it, is my defence against the forces of respectability, which have this afternoon made a determined invasion of these premises in the formidable shape of the ladies of the St James's Orphan Relief Fund."

"I understand it is a very worthy cause."

"That I do not dispute. However, when my day is disturbed by their unceasing chatter from downstairs while Mrs Hudson entertains, my bonhomie begins to fade. Had I not taken action, they would have been up here, haranguing me."

"I doubt it would have come to that. They appear to be a most well-meaning group of ladies."

"That is what Mrs Hudson said when she came up with lunch," Holmes returned in a disgruntled tone of voice. "Do you know what she offered me? Cucumber sandwiches, Watson. And the cucumber was peeled, mark you. She has never done that before and certainly not for us, her poor lodgers. No, this does not bode well. Once you forsake these rooms, I shall be outnumbered and outmanoeuvred."

His expression was unhappy, his tone somewhat censorious. The gulf that had opened between us in the past few weeks was widening, provoked in no small part by remarks such as these and other comments, which, far from indicating the disinterest to which he professed in my imminent departure, on the contrary suggested that he was most inconvenienced and aggrieved by the prospect.

"However," said he, giving a curt sniff of disapproval, "I suppose I must make the best of a bad situation." He glanced in my direction, seeing if his bolt had shot home. When I failed to rise to his goading, he changed tack. "How is the house in Paddington? You were there, this morning, I take it?"

I was not deceived by this sudden and apparent interest in my affairs and endeavoured to treat it in the same spirit as it was intended. "Yes, I was. The builders have some evidence of dry rot."

"Most unfortunate. Is it… serious?"

"It will not prevent our moving in, if that is what you mean."

I had been perusing my bank book while we had been talking and, as expected, I found that the calls on my purse had been so frequent of late that I had scarcely five pounds to my name. I had not the money to pay the demanding Mr Bulstrode and lacked the means of gaining it in so short a time by legitimate avenues. I threw it down with a sigh of frustration, which grew to annoyance when I found that Holmes had been watching my actions with enlivened curiosity.

"And Stamford did not refuse my request," I said, turning on him. "He was away with his fiancée, gone up to Edinburgh where they are getting married."

"Poor fellow," he noted. "This sudden rush to the altar seems quite the fashion of the moment. Is there something in the water, do you think?"

"What nonsense," I answered querulously.

"Dear me, Watson, if I had known Bloomsbury was to have this effect on you, I would have—"

"What?" I interjected, alarmed that I had in some way betrayed the incident that I had thought better to keep from him. "Why do you mention Bloomsbury? And how did you know about Stamford, for that matter? I don't recall telling you of my intentions."

"That is quite correct, you didn't. As I recall, you left this morning in an ill-tempered mood and neglected to mention your plans for the day." He wended his way to the mantle and recharged his pipe. "An examination of your habits, however, is always most instructive as is the advantage of having privileged information. The question of who is to fill the role of our 'best man' has been occupying your thoughts for some time. One must ask to whom you would turn. Stamford sprang naturally to mind, a suspicion that was confirmed when I saw you consulting the Medical Directory before breakfast. He holds a post at the Hospital for Sick Children in Great Ormond Street, does he not?"

"Yes, he's an assistant physician. How on earth did you know that?"

"My dear fellow, I followed your example and looked the fellow up, naturally. That you have been in that quarter today is confirmed by that bulge in your pocket, too large to be a notebook, hardly small enough to be anything other than that tract on the treatment of nervous diseases to which you drew my attention last week in the bookshop on the corner of Goodge Street. I trust you negotiated a fair price from Mr Standish?"

"Yes, he was most reasonable. Oh, and he had this for you." I drew out the packet he had entrusted to me and passed it to Holmes. "He said that he had mended the binding as best he could, but that there was very little he could about the endpapers."

Holmes pounced upon it with a little cry of delight and tore away the wrapping with the enthusiasm of a child opening a birthday gift. "Capital, Watson, capital! A Folio edition of the King Henry VIII songbook. The condition leaves something to be desired, of course, but then one cannot expect perfection for 3s 6d. You noted the use of the double mensurated canon? Not a treble clef in sight, hah! Conclusive of this being an early work. Standish did not know what he had, I'll wager. Ah, yes, here we are, William Cornysh, Robert Fayrfax, and here, by the monarch himself, _Pastime with Good Company_."

I fear I lack Holmes's appreciation for early music at the best of times, and especially that particular afternoon, when I had more pressing matters on my mind that the identity of the composer of a piece written over 400 years ago. He, however, was greatly taken with his latest acquisition, and, as was often his habit, he took a turn about the room, humming to himself and marking time with elaborate gestures of his hand as though conducting an unseen choir.

"Common time or compound time," he was muttering to himself. "Tut, tut! They were most lackadaisical about noting such details in the early Renaissance. It matters, of course. The whole nature of the piece changes according to the rhythm, even with these relatively simple homophonic motets."

"Undoubtedly," I said, giving him less than my full attention.

"A practical demonstration shall surely prove which is the most effective," he announced suddenly, taking up his violin and plucking at the strings.

As pleasant as these impromptu solos could be, a pounding headache and a mountain of worries made that prospect less than welcome. "Must you?" I asked. "Now?"

"How else is one to determine rhythm? With works such as these, the words are intrinsic to one's understanding of the beat. This is a light, celebratory piece. Take this line, for example: 'youth must have its dalliance'. What a strange notion! Did you 'dally' in your youth, Watson?"

"I had my moments."

"I cannot recall being an overenthusiastic dallier myself. I am told that I was a quite serious child."

"That I do not find too hard to believe."

"However, if one is to dally, youth is the time to do it. The middle-aged man who would a-dallying go becomes a subject of mockery, while the older man is simply to be pitied. Too late for me then, and for you, my dear fellow. Your days of dalliance, I fear, are over. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Watson, it tolls for thee on Thursday, to be exact, two days from now."

"_Three_ days."

"One can hardly count today at this late hour. Still, to the condemned man, every moment is precious." Finally relented, he returned his violin with the greatest of care to its case. "Of course, the solution to your problem is obvious," he said without looking at me. "You have yet to ask the obvious candidate."

I stared at him. "I did ask you, some time ago. You were most offensive."

He spun round, his eyes displaying a twinkle of mischief that put me on my guard. "That I deny. You asked me if I would be your best man and I said—"

"'Was my attendance at the church assured?' Those were your exact words, Holmes. How could you ask such a thing?"

"A reasonable enough question in the circumstances. It is not a role to be undertaken lightly, carrying as it does great responsibility and some considerable risk."

"Risk?"

"Indeed. Should the groom fail to put in an appearance, there is a tradition that the best man should marry the bride. As charming as your fiancée is, I have no intention of submitting to the shackles of matrimony. Great uncle Desiderius fell foul of that particular expectation, as I now recall. Both bride and groom eloped on the wedding day, and it fell to him to marry the maid of honour. He said the experience shortened his life considerably."

"And how old was this great uncle of yours?"

"When he died, 97. You may scoff, Watson, but he had his heart set on reaching his centenary and so might he have done had he not married the charming Miss Wimpole, spinster of the parish of Coombe Ely and not a day over 23."

"Well, you may settle your mind on that account," I replied. "My attendance is guaranteed."

I said it in good humour, only to realise that unless the hundred pounds to pay my late brother's debt was found, I could well be spending my wedding day in hospital and Holmes's fanciful concerns might prove well-founded.

"In that case, I am happy to accept," he went on.

"I thought you didn't approve."

"For myself, the marital state holds few attractions. I have had a terrifying vision of the future this afternoon, and it is filled with endless rounds of cucumber sandwiches and afternoons with the garrulous ladies of many and various charity committees. It is enough to give any man pause. Why, I was saying to Mycroft only the other day—"

"He isn't getting married, is he?" I said in spite of myself.

Holmes laughed out loud. "My dear fellow, whatever makes you say that? The process of courtship and marriage requires an energy of which my brother is most unequal. If he could find a wife without having to leave the comfort of his chair, I dare say he might be tempted. Even then, Mycroft is too set in his ways to contemplate such a thing. He sends his apologies, by the way. He will not be able to attend on Thursday, which is no great surprise, for he is a reluctant attendee at social gatherings. To continue, however, as I was telling him, it is not for me to interfere in the arrangements of others, although as an impartial observer, I feel I am ideally placed to take note of the inherent dangers. If people wish to embark on such a potentially lethal enterprise, one can only advise and trust that the parties involved survive the ordeal."

He gazed at me expectantly, waiting for my reply. I knew his views of old, however, and another lecture on the number of cases he had studied where wives had murdered their husbands and vice versa was neither useful nor appropriate. It was easier to say nothing and let him have his head.

"Indeed, I may write a monograph upon the subject," he went on. "Should anyone take the trouble to read my thoughts on the matter and follow my advice, they shall surely be the envy of the married world. Certainly the literature available to prospective couples is woefully inadequate and somewhat misleading. This role you have allotted to me, for instance, tell me is it likely that I shall have to fight off rivals for your bride's hand? No? A pity, I was rather relishing that role. Then I am to be your escort and protector of the ring. You do have one, I take it?"

I retrieved the tiny green velvet box from my room and passed it into his care. He opened the lid and regarded the gold circlet with its etched pattern of flowers, saying nothing. Then he took it from its cushion and subjected it to the most intense scrutiny under his lens for a full minute. Since Holmes's silences tend to worry me more than his moments of intense exposition, signifying as it does that he is giving the matter at hand considerable thought, I had to wonder what had so caught his attention.

"Do you think Mary will like it?" I said with concern. "I admit I was somewhat at a loss."

"In affairs of the heart," said he, snapping the lid shut, "I have observed that the sentiment is often more important than the token in question. Because of that, yes, I believe she will like it very much, both for its aesthetic qualities, which are considerable, and for the fact that you have chosen it. The seller did tell you it was not new, I take it?"

"Yes, he said the hallmark was 1832."

"Quite so. It was rather rubbed, indicating that saw much use by its previous owner." He ran a fingertip over the printed name of the jeweller on the box lid. "Handyman and Price, Old Bond Street," he noted. "I knew a Handyman once."

"A goldsmith?"

"Not exactly, although his liking for gaudy baubles proved to be his undoing. Have you given any thought to an inscription? I noticed it has yet to be engraved."

"Well, no," I admitted. "In truth, Holmes, what with one thing and other, and now this added expense with the dry rot—"

"You had other things on your mind, quite naturally. Never fear, I shall see that it is done." I watched as he stowed the box with its precious contents in his waistcoat pocket. "Now is there any other small service I might perform? This close to the ceremony, I fear you have left me very little to do."

He could indeed help, but in a way that I did not dare to ask. However, the matter would have to be broached sooner or later, and in the absence of other options, I saw that I would have to swallow my pride.

"There is something," I began hesitantly. "I wondered… if I could borrow some money?"

Holmes nodded as he concentrated on applying a match to his cigarette. "You know where it is, in the tea caddy, as usual. Take what you need. There should be about ten pounds in change."

"Actually, I need £100."

"Ah," said he, raising his brows, "you mean _money_."

His emphasis was not lost on me. The sum was considerable, as was my nerve in asking, yet Holmes seemed unruffled by the request. The unease and discomfort was entirely on my side as I waited while he went to his desk, drew out his cheque-book and began to write. Duly signed and dated, he passed the cheque to me and returned to his chair without comment.

"Thank you, for this," I said. "I'll pay you back as soon as I can."

He made an airy gesture with his hand. "Keep it."

"I cannot."

"Watson, I am not so impecunious that I would weigh the value of your friendship against such a trifling sum of money."

"Trifling to you, perhaps."

"If you wish to return it, by all means do so. I would prefer, however, that you regard it as a wedding gift. Married men have many expenses, bachelors less so, and my existence is a frugal one. There is much truth in that old saying about never being a borrower or a lender; such bad feeling is created on both sides. The giving of gifts, on the other hand, is satisfying to all parties concerned. If I am content to give, then as the recipient it is incumbent upon you to reciprocate in a similar manner."

I was beset by such a swell of such gratitude that to think of my earlier terseness towards him made me acutely ashamed. I had been in need; he had not hesitated to come to my assistance. He had not even asked me for what reason I required such a large sum.

At such moments, I am often struck by the contradictory nature of my friend's personality. That such acts of unselfish generosity may spring from the same well from which draws that cold-blooded and sometimes callous creature whose actions frequently gave those around him cause to label him as unemotional seems almost perverse. It is as if two souls inhabit that one lean frame, battling for dominance, the one never entirely being subjugated by the other. I am often puzzled to encounter the one in the midst of the other, as now, when I was both stunned and humbled by such a display of altruism.

"You leave me very little choice but to thank you again," said I, easing us both of our awkwardness of the moment. "How I am ever to repay such… _thoughtfulness_, I cannot say."

"You could name your first-born after me." I glanced across at him to see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Forgive me for what passes as my poor attempt at humour," he chuckled. "To see your expression was worth it, however. If a gesture is required, you could do worse than to dine with me tonight. Since I have but three more evenings to call upon the pleasure of your company, I feel obliged to make the most of them."

There had been some degree of sincerity about his remark that awakened a sense of remorse within me. Only on the cusp of loss does one appreciate what in times past was taken for granted.

"You speak as though I moving to the other side of the world," I said. "It is only Paddington. I shall still call in from time to time."

"Of course you shall." His smile became wan and his voice lacked any real enthusiasm as he spoke. "And perhaps we shall yet share another case. In the meantime, we shall dine and—who the devil could that be at this hour?"

Downstairs, the bell had jangled. Holmes went to the window and pulled back the curtain to peer down at the street below.

"Well, well, here's friend Lestrade," said he. "Perchance we shall have our case sooner than we anticipated. Look lively, Watson, the full weight of the Metropolitan Police is about to descend upon us. Let us not be found wanting."

A few moments later, the door opened and the thin-faced inspector entered. In all our long years of association, I have never seen a graver expression than that on the face of Lestrade that evening. A nerve twitched at the edge of his jaw and his normally bright eyes were dull and furtive. He appeared pinched, though not with cold for the temperature was mild, and yet he was huddled into the depths of his coat, as though he wished to vanish from our sight within the folds of the material. To my mind, he presented the appearance of a man who wished to be anywhere but where he was – a stance I have often found in the messenger who brings bad news.

"Evening, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," said he, nodding to us.

"Do come in, Lestrade," said Holmes, waving him to a chair. "Why, we haven't seen you since that business with the one-legged cyclist. I trust it is a case that brings you here tonight, and not merely an excuse to avoid your mother-in-law's company?"

"No, although that thought did cross my mind." Lestrade blinked, suddenly realising what Holmes had said. "How did you know the old girl was staying with us?"

"The same way I can tell that you left your house in something of a hurry this morning. You have the remnants of shaving soap in your ears and your collar is stained, conclusive proof that you slipped your wife's usually inordinate attention. Never have I seen you dare set foot beyond your threshold with anything other than a pristine collar except on those occasions when Mrs Lestrade has been away. Had that been the case, you would have no reason not to return home for your meal, yet you have been eating biscuits to ward off your hunger – I should brush those crumbs from your lapels before you venture back, if I were you, and remove that paper from your pocket if you wish for a warm reception. From this we may gather that you have a particularly demanding houseguest, who takes up all of your wife's time and whom you wish to avoid. Who else but your mother-in-law, about whom you have expressed your reservations in the past?"

Lestrade grunted his agreement. "I'll not deny it, Mr Holmes. She's been with us for nigh on a week. Her doctor said she needed a change of scene on account of her nerves. She's certainly getting on mine." He sighed. "But it's not that brings me here."

"A case?" Holmes asked.

"A question of identity." Lestrade fished a large handkerchief from his pocket, from the folds of which he produced a gold watch and triple-linked double Albert chain from which dangled a green and red swivel fob. "I was wondered if you knew the gentlemen this belongs to," said he, holding it out to my friend.

I could not swear to it, but I fancy I saw a paling of Holmes's already sallow cheeks as he beheld the item. A moment passed before he took the watch from Lestrade, flipped open the back case and nodded.

"Yes, this belongs to my brother, Mycroft. I gave it to him."

"I thought as much," said the inspector. "When I saw the inscription in that watch, well, there's only one man in London I know whose Christian name is Sherlock, and that's you, Mr Holmes."

"Where did you get this?" His voice was calm, unnaturally so. "Was it stolen?"

Lestrade took a deep breath. "There was an incident in Holborn a few hours ago. The wind took the parapet off one of those old buildings and the falling masonry injured several of the passers-by."

"How come you then to have Mycroft's watch?"

The question was unnecessary. I could tell from Lestrade's expression that the news was the worst possible.

"It was the only way we could identify the gentleman, for he had precious little else on him," said he gravely, adopting an air of quiet deference that hitherto was unknown when in the company of my friend. "I'm sorry to have to be the one who tells you this, but your brother, Mr Mycroft Holmes, is dead."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Three!**_


	3. Chapter Three

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Three: Whose Body?**

The body was that of a middle-aged man, in life tall, corpulent and imposing. His dark hair, now uniformly muddied with blood, had been touched with silver at the temples and the weighty jowls which had given bulk to his features were slumped into marbled folds about the thickened neck. He lay face uppermost, half covered with a sheet heavily stained from repeated use, which had been thrown over the legs and barrel-like torso in haste following the announcement of our unexpected arrival.

The surgeon had yet to begin his work and his assistant had barely started the task of washing the corpse. A pail with murky contents stood to one side of the table, a sponge drooping from its handle from which fell the bloody droplets into a growing puddle. The watery halo of red that fringed the head dribbled from the slab to leak onto the floor and slopped around our feet in a grisly echo of the sodden pavements outside.

A ton of masonry, falling from a great height, could do damage enough to a man; here the devastation was complete. I scarcely recognised these twisted features as those of Mycroft Holmes. Only the head was visible, the sheet having been drawn back to reveal the congealed mass of blood and brick dust that clung to the face, the unnatural dent in the cranium, and the shards of bone gleaming in the pulpy mass of the battered eye sockets and broken nose.

I had seen other bodies in such circumstances and had cause to probe the mysteries of a few of them. I trust I am not so hardened by prolonged exposure that I have lost my ability to feel sympathy for the lives cut short by tragedy or to remember to observe the silent dignity that death demands. I hope I never stand before a corpse as unaffected as Sherlock Holmes appeared to be that evening. When I reach that juncture, I shall find another profession.

I suspected that he felt a great deal, not that one would have been able to tell from his outward demeanour. If nothing else, he had been consistent. The news had been accepted quietly and without fuss. If I had had to blink back a sudden hot rush of moisture to my eyes when I had received word of my own brother's death, the same could not be said for my taciturn friend.

It was not that he was not capable of such a gesture. I have seen him rail against the world and chafe with agitation when a case went against him. I have witnessed the highs of triumph and endured the lows of ennui. I had expected some reaction to Lestrade's news; not perhaps a wailing or gnashing of teeth, but some small mark of regret. Yet he had said nothing about his loss, except to state that he wished to view the body and that in as level a voice as I have ever heard him command.

As ever, he had the greatest mastery over his emotional state, although how he managed to control himself on that occasion, I shall never know. The inspector's presence, perhaps, accounted for it, as a show of weakness borne of excess sentiment would have been anathema to him. Yet to stand before his brother's corpse and retain his composure was as bloodless as thing as I have ever witnessed.

I told myself that his behaviour was a manifestation of shock, for I could not bring myself to believe that he had been untouched by this tragedy. He had not asked for my support, but I had accompanied him nevertheless, sensing that he would need a companion in the difficult times ahead. We had journeyed in silence and in silence still stood in the presence of the dead, waiting for what I knew not, except that it was necessary.

At my side, Lestrade did not share my degree of patience. Holmes had overridden his advice to wait until morning to visit the mortuary and his discomfort had been on the rise ever since our departure from Baker Street. The formalities of identification over, I gathered he was eager to leave, for his perpetual shuffling and fidgeting was starting to weary even me. I had some sympathy for him; the atmosphere of the mortuary with its mingling, cloying smells of damp, rectified spirits and decay is enough to unnerve any man unused to the practices of the medical profession. Holmes's attitude was not helping matters either and, as one long minute stretched into another, Lestrade's agitation finally reached the point where he could stand it no longer.

"Is he all right, Doctor?" he whispered to me.

"I shouldn't think so, Inspector."

"Yes, well, if you don't mind, I think I'll be getting along. This place gives me the creeps. How you stand it, I'll never know." He cleared his throat and spoke out loud. "If that's all, Mr Holmes…?"

Holmes dragged his gaze away from the ruined face. "A moment more, Lestrade," said he. "If you would be so kind."

Lestrade gave me an uneasy look and reluctantly gave his assent. "Take all the time you need. I'll be outside. It's a trifle cold in here for me."

He took his leave and we were left alone. With Lestrade gone, even as restless as he was, I found that I missed his presence. Holmes's continued silence was beginning to become unnerving, so much so that I felt moved to approach him and offer what consolation I could. The touch of my hand on his shoulder brought him from his brown study and as he turned his gaze to mine I tried to read something in his inscrutable expression that might give me some indication as to his thoughts.

"Holmes, would you like me to go?" I asked. "If you wish to be by yourself—"

"Not at all," said he. "Your presence is most welcome. I did not expect you to come, but I am most grateful that you did."

"I would not have thought of being anything else. This has been a shock for you."

"Shocked?" Holmes shook his head. "No, I do not believe that I am. If we are to make anything of this turn of events, surely it must be to reaffirm what we already know to be true about the precariousness of the human condition. One moment alive, the next…" He made a vague gesture to the corpse. "Why, it could have been you here on this slab. You were in the vicinity."

This consideration was one to which I had not given any thought, but it was indeed sobering. Had I not been waylaid, I would have continued on towards Holborn, instead of which I had cut through to the Tottenham Court Road by way of Great Russell Street and taken the shortest way home. Had I continued to follow in Mycroft Holmes's footsteps, might I have been witness to the toppling of the parapet? Might I have had time to call out, to warn those underneath?

Holmes's next remark informed me that the thought I could have done something to prevent his brother's death must have told on my face.

"My dear fellow, are you quite well?" he asked. "You've gone a very peculiar colour."

"That you should ask me that," I replied. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am about your brother. You have my deepest condolences and my sympathy."

"Well, Mycroft has always been a tiresome sort of fellow," said he, somewhat bitterly. "Probably something to do with his always being right."

This remark took me aback. "Holmes, I…"

"And now this foolishness. What are we to make of it?"

"I'm sure he didn't expect to die today. It was an accident, after all."

Holmes let out a throaty laugh, his breath condensing in the cold air. "Oh, my dear fellow, surely you do not believe this battered and bloated body to be that of Mycroft?"

I stared at him. "It isn't?"

"Not at all. Do you mean to say that all this time you have been labouring under the misapprehension that you were viewing my brother's corpse?"

"Holmes, you identified him as such."

"Yes, I did. I had my reasons."

"But…" I glanced back at the bloodied face. "Are you quite sure?"

Holmes raised his brows. "I should know my own brother, Doctor. Thirty-four years of association makes me rather more of the authority as to his identity than you who have met him but twice."

"All the same, I feel I should know him if I saw him. I'm sure it was he…" I stopped myself in time. "When I came in," I added hastily, "that is what I thought, that it was him."

"As I was equally sure it was not," said Holmes decisively. "Indeed, I was _certain_ of that fact before ever we left Baker Street." He smiled at my incredulity. "Come now, Watson, Mycroft, who never alters his routine but for national crises and Christmas, when then he keeps to his club, found dead halfway across London, in Holborn of all places? If that does not seem unlikely enough, we are then expected to believe he was on _foot_! The only time the soles of his shoes ever come into contact with the pavement is when he alights from a cab. I doubt he walks less than a mile a year."

As convincing as this argument was, I should not have liked to set such circumstantial evidence against the proof of my own eyes if it were a relation of mine on the mortuary slab.

"He may have had good reason for being where he was," I countered. "People do change." I felt my resolve weakening under the sudden and searching look Holmes directed at me. "Remember that case of the Greek Interpreter. You said yourself how unusual it was that Mycroft came to our rooms."

"These little knowing barbs of yours have not entirely escaped my attention," said he. "You appear to know more about this business than you are willing to admit. If pushed, I should say that your path crossed with that of this unfortunate imposter today, a not unlikely event given that you were in the same locality. You did not speak to him, clearly, or you would not have been deceived by so passing a resemblance. Something occurred, however, that you judge better not share with me. I am right, am I not?" He chuckled at my obvious chagrin. "You may as well tell me, my dear fellow. As it was not Mycroft who you thought you saw doing whatever it was that has held your tongue, you will embarrass neither him nor me, and it may have some bearing upon the case."

"As you wish," I said heavily. "I saw your brother—the person I _mistook_ for your brother, that is, outside a house in a disreputable part of Bloomsbury."

"Interesting, although I do not see why you thought that would give me pause. Come now, there is more to this tale."

"Well, yes. He was… embracing a woman."

Holmes erupted with laughter. "Good heavens," said he, quite beside himself. "Yes, I can see now why you thought to keep this from me. Embracing a woman, you say? Dear me, one might almost say that was tantamount to slander."

"That is what I thought I saw. I noticed because the woman in question had red hair."

"Further evidence, if any were needed, that it was not and could not have been Mycroft. He has always been partial to the charms of ladies with fair hair, ever since Elsie Partridge broke his heart as the tender age of ten. No wonder you were so vexed when you returned home this evening. Now, do you remember the location of this house?"

"I believe I could find it again."

"Capital. It may be the only lead we have in establishing this fellow's real identity."

"If you say so, Holmes."

"You still doubt me? Very well." With that, he swept the sheet away. "Mycroft has a crescent-shaped scar on his right upper thigh towards the back of the leg, the result of a shooting incident which was entirely my fault."

"You _shot_ him?"

"With an arrow. Quite by accident, you understand; I was rather young at the time. The mark should just be visible. Would you, Doctor?"

I stooped to examine the area Holmes had indicated and found nothing.

"As I expected," said he. "How often must I emphasise the importance of details, for the whole aspect of a case may turn upon the observance of the smallest thing? Trusting to general impressions can be a fatal mistake, as you have discovered in your error in assuming that this man was my brother. The likeness is exceptional, I grant you, but it would take a dedicated professional to manufacture an intimate scar like that, something of which only a close family member would be aware."

"Would it be necessary? He could not have anticipated his having an accident like this."

Holmes's eyes glittered. "There you have hit upon the very question at the heart of this matter. What is the purpose of this deception?" He flung the sheet back over the corpse. "We have wasted time enough here. Come, Watson, let us away from this charnel house."

Outside in the corridor, we found Lestrade waiting for us, his hands wrapped around a large mug of steaming tea. He set it aside quickly on seeing us and his expression brightened with the prospect of being able to leave.

"All done then, Mr Holmes?" he asked.

"Indeed." The mantle of emotional detachment had once again fallen into place. "There is little point in remaining."

Lestrade nodded. "These things happen. No rhyme or reason to it."

"Could I ask a favour, Inspector?"

"By all means."

"I would appreciate it if you could keep my brother's name out of the press, for the time being," he added, seeing that Lestrade was about to protest. "He had a post in Whitehall and government bodies being cautious by nature, well, I'm sure you understand the need for discretion."

Lestrade grunted. "Oh, yes, I know the sort. I'll do what I can, Mr Holmes, but the name'll have to come out at the inquest. There's to be an inquiry, you see, into who was to blame. It's not only your brother, but three others dead too and a child lost an arm. Someone's to be prosecuted for this. At the moment, the builder's blaming the owner of the house and he's blaming the tenant. It's a mess and no mistake."

"Then we shall leave you to make your report," said Holmes. "Good night, Lestrade."

Drizzle had made the air taste all the sweeter when we emerged into the yellow glow of night. Holmes whistled up a cab and gestured for me to climb inside while he hung back.

"Aren't you coming?" I asked.

"No, there are matters that require my immediate attention. You have done enough for one evening, however. Go home and rest. I noticed you were limping."

"It's nothing, Holmes."

"Watson, you are to be married two days from now. If you expect me to carry you up the aisle on my back, then I fear you are mistaken. I will go so far as to provide a bath chair or a wheelbarrow if you prefer, but how much better it will be if you are able to stride into the church on your own two feet."

I had to concede defeat. My leg was giving me pain and I longed for the comfort of a warm fire and something to eat. "Where are you going?"

"Whitehall. Certain parties need to be informed that my brother is missing."

"You believe something has happened to him then?"

Holmes nodded, his expression sombre. "I shall call round at his lodgings and the Diogenes Club on my way, although I do not expect to find him there. A stranger may have died tonight, but that does not explain why he had Mycroft's watch."

"A forgery perhaps."

"No, that will not do. Details, Watson, details, the very tools of my trade. Why bother to fake a watch and its inscription when it could just as easily be taken from the person concerned?"

"Your brother was robbed and… kidnapped?"

"If so, then by suppressing the news of this incident, I may have bought us some valuable time in allowing the kidnappers to continue in their belief that their agent is still at large. Also, by informing Lestrade that the body is that of Mycroft, I have brought an end to an incipient police investigation, which would have alerted the dead man's associates as to his demise."

"Then he is alive?"

Holmes released a long breath and stared away into the darkness. "Did I say that? If kidnapped he was, then what possible advantage would there be in keeping him alive when a credible replacement was readily at hand? You have already noted that no one could have anticipated the accident. No, I fear the weight of probability rests most convincingly on Mycroft being dead. Well, good night, Watson. Please dine without me; I do not expect to home until the early hours, by which time I trust I shall have better news for you."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Four!**_


	4. Chapter Four

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Four: ****The Man who was Mycroft**

I had little appetite and dined sparely on the remnants of Mrs Hudson's cucumber sandwiches. It had been my intention to stay up and wait for Holmes's return, but sleep has a way of catching up with even the most determined of souls and it was not long before my eyelids were drooping and my head was nodding in those moments before slumber claims another victory.

What time I fell asleep, I cannot say. When I woke, however, it was daylight and a glance at the clock told me that it was a little after seven. A distant clatter of porcelain told me that Holmes was somewhere beyond the closed door of his room. To say I struggled to wakefulness was very near to the truth of the matter, for my position in the chair, comfortable as it was, had been an awkward one and lancing pains in the muscles of my neck made any sudden movement of my head undesirable. My throat was thick and my tongue dry, and I had hopes that a cup of tea would soon be forthcoming.

Before calling on Mrs Hudson, I went in search of my friend with as much haste as my stiff and aching body would allow, for I was keen to hear an account of his night's investigations. I called out to him to warn him of my impending approach, but either he had not heard me or my voice had yet to command sufficient weight to penetrate the barrier between us. I opened his door without knocking and thus it was that I entered to find him with his coat hanging from one shoulder, his sleeve rolled up and a look of surprise on his face which faded into weary displeasure.

"It seems I was premature in my assumption that I had these rooms to myself," said he ungraciously. "And having awoken, here you are."

"So it would appear. Although I had hopes of this being nothing more than a bad dream."

He snorted and returned the syringe to its case. "No, Doctor, those come later."

"Is that really necessary?" I gestured to the half-empty bottle. "Or are we to pretend yet again that this is nothing more than the relief of ennui?"

"That would be true enough had my mind of late been exercised in nothing more absorbing than the daily round of gossip and scandal and a close study of the ceiling. What you perceive as a weakness on my part is somewhat closer to the truth; I find I am in need of its more practical applications in a palliative sense." He tossed the bottle to me. "Had you exercised those powers of observation which I so often exhort, you would have seen that this is morphine."

"What is this? Are you in pain, Holmes?"

As he began to strip away his coat, taking the utmost care in his actions as each bend and twist of his arm elicited a wince or small moan, I noted the beginnings of a mottled pattern of red blotches on the right-hand sleeve of his shirt. I moved to help him, and as the torn and dirty fabric came away, I was concerned to see that the blood had soaked through the length of his arm and had pooled at the wrist, from where it had divided into rivulets and run the channels of escape between his knuckles to coat the insides of his fingers with rust-coloured stains.

"What happened?" I asked.

"An encounter with hansom driven by a drunken cabman," said he with effort. "Don't look so alarmed, Doctor. It's not as bad as it seems."

"Bad enough, Holmes. You could have been killed."

"Yes." His gaze was thoughtful. "I apologise for waking you. I endeavoured to keep my return as noiseless as possible so as not to disturb the household."

"You did not disturb me. I didn't hear you creep in."

"That is what you may expect to hear when I 'creep' in, as you so aptly put it."

I was in no mood to bandy words on the subject, although I was pleased to find his strange sense of humour had not suffered damage in the incident. "Remove your shirt," I ordered. "Let me see the damage."

For once, he proved a willing patient. The drug was beginning to take effect, for we managed the removal of his shirt with very little protestation, even where I had to peel the material away with care in those places where it had begun to adhere to the wounds beneath. Any schoolboy will tell you that blood makes a simple cut appear much worse; in Holmes's case, however, the embellishment of gore served only to conceal the scale of his injuries.

On his upper arm, a multitude of grazes criss-crossed the flesh. His elbow had been skinned to the bone and large flap of skin had been lifted on his forearm revealing a pulpy mass beneath. The area was swollen and angry, already displaying the crimson and purpling colours of deep bruising. I have never known Sherlock Holmes fuss about his health or make undue comment about the knocks and scrapes he incurred as a necessary part of his trade, so the fact that he had needed the relief of morphine told me more about the scale of his discomfort than he would ever willingly admit. He had my sympathy and my apologies for having judged him so harshly.

If I read his injuries correctly, the cab had come upon him suddenly, too quickly for him to take evasive action. It had clipped him and sent him hurtling and skidding across the cobbles, tearing his clothes and flesh in the process. As bad as it was, it could have been much worse. Mutilation and death was often the fate of those who tumbled beneath flying hooves and wheels; but for his falling away from the path of the cab, my visit this morning could have been to the mortuary.

"I trust the rest of your evening was more successful than this," I asked while I worked. "What news?"

"None to speak of," said he, sighing fretfully. "The Diogenes confirmed that Mycroft had not been there all day. At his rooms, I was fortunate enough to bump into Mr Melas." He caught his breath. "Do be careful, Watson. I am a creature of flesh and bone, after all, and not stone whatever you might think. I do hope you do not intend to be as rough as this with all your patients."

"Only the ones who should know better," I said with smile. "How is Mr Melas?"

"Quite recovered from his ordeal and choosing his clients with greater care. When I asked him about my brother, he said that he had seen him yesterday morning. He reported that he had seemed agitated, although he had been in perfectly good humour the evening before. Now, what do you make of that?"

"Something occurred in the night to account for his change of mood."

Holmes shook his head. "Not the night, Watson, but the morning."

I was moment behind his train of reasoning. "You mean something came in the post?"

"Precisely. Mycroft was lured away and the imposter took his place."

"Did you find anything to suggest what the 'lure' might have been?"

Again, Holmes shook his head. "Mycroft is a most untidy fellow. I had the devil of a time sorting through his correspondence and spent half the night devoted to what turned out to be a fruitless enterprise. Whatever it was, however, caused him to leave his rooms in some haste and without thought to leaving a message, which indicates he expected to return before he was missed."

"But why? What was the purpose of it?"

"He works in Whitehall, that is reason enough. Certainly my news stirred them into a frenzy of activity. They even roused the Prime Minister from his bed."

"The Premier is concerned about the fate of an accountant?" Holmes hesitated in replying. "You did say that your brother audits the books?"

"Yes." He grimaced as I sponged away a clot of stubborn blood and took a deep breath. "For several of the government departments. Will this take much longer?"

I ignored him. "And he is important enough to warrant a deception on this scale?"

"Knowing as you do that he is my brother and quite my superior in observation and deduction, you should already be aware of my answer."

I dabbed at the edges of the deepest of the gazes, taking a moment to formulate my thoughts. "I think they, whoever _they _are, were remarkably fortunate in discovering a man who fitted your brother's description so precisely. Why, he could almost have been..." I hesitated. Holmes's questioning gaze urged me on. "Perhaps a member of your family?"

"Let me set your mind at rest on that point, my dear fellow. We are a family of two, possibly one now. My father is dead, my mother also. I had—have but one brother, and he seven years my senior."

"A cousin then?"

Holmes smothered something that sounded halfway between a laugh and a groan. "As much as I would like to forget the other and varied members of my clan, I fear I have not. No, this fellow is not known to me. The resemblance is a coincidence, nothing more. They do say that we all have our doubles. We have had the pleasure of meeting Mycroft's, albeit post-mortem."

"And precious little we know of him."

"I would not say that. We know he was in Bloomsbury for an assignation. We have your sharp eyes to thank for that. We know also that he had my brother's watch and had endeavoured to dress according to his taste, which has always bordered on the bland. He or his masters as we shall have to call them had gone to a great deal of trouble, even employing the skills of Mycroft's own tailor to provide the imposter with clothes. I only hope they did not have the temerity to charge it to his account."

"How do you know this?"

"I returned to the mortuary after your departure and sorted through the dead man's possessions, few that they were. I should say his clothes were about a month old; time enough to lose that stiffness of new cloth and acquire that degree of comfort so necessary in any garment. However, it does not help us in our inquiries. A well-worn pair of trousers will tell you more about the wearer than their newer counterpart. Except that our man was in the habit of keeping a ready supply of 'Haworth's Penny Toffees' in his pocket and had recently had an encounter with a woman with red hair – I found a strand on his coat; a most peculiar hue, I must say, small wonder that you noticed her – I can tell you very little. The man himself was another matter entirely."

"You re-examined the body?"

"I saw all I needed at our initial inspection. What were your conclusions about our mystery man, Watson?"

"Well, now you tell me that it wasn't your brother, I should say that the body was that of a man aged about forty, overweight, hair turning to grey—"

"Should we require a description, to you we shall turn. Deduce, my dear fellow, _deduce_!"

I shook my head in admittance of defeat. "I am afraid I saw nothing."

"On the contrary, you saw everything yet you fail to make the necessary inferences. The weight alone is suggestive."

"Well-fed and prosperous?"

"You would find much the same thickness of girth in a man who is frequently in his cups. And a prosperous man never wore such threadbare undergarments as he had."

"A wastrel then?"

"Certainly someone with a liking for the pleasures of life and not accustomed to hard work. Did you observe his hands? You'll never see finer, I'll wager. He never kept hands as smooth and fine as that digging the roads or spending his day at his desk. At one time he had whiskers – the skin was a shade lighter at the line of his jaw. I imagine he shaved them off in anticipation of his role as Mycroft. The preparations necessary for his immersion in the part have robbed us of a great of information about the nature of his life and identity, but I feel safe in saying that his trade was one that needed great confidence, was insecure and gave him latitude to indulge in wine, women and song. An impecunious actor of some talent fallen on hard times due to his own folly, I should say."

I chuckled at this pronouncement. "That seems to me a stretch, Holmes."

"That is because you fail to follow the logical steps that have led me to this conclusion."

With his wounds cleaned and dressed, I began the task of covering his arm with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. "No doubt you will explain," I said.

"Come now, Watson. Who else but someone with supreme confidence would attempt such a charade? Why, even I would not have the gall to believe I could deceive the First Lord of the Treasury in such a manner."

"Good heavens! You mean to say that our man has been abroad causing mischief?"

"Very much so. Whether for good or evil, the man posing as my brother yesterday morning convinced both the Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer to invest the nation's gold reserves in the stocks of a certain South American country."

I paused and stared hard at him. "They would do such a thing, on your brother's advice?"

"They do and they have. Now we must ask ourselves why. Who stands to gain?" He bit his lip. "Have a care with those bandages, Watson. I would prefer to keep my arm."

As I tied the knot, a soft knock sounded at the door and Mrs Hudson's voice informed us that coffee was on the table and breakfast would be up shortly. I helped Holmes on with a clean shirt and then left him to complete his ablutions. I poured myself a coffee and found a letter waiting for me. My groan of dismay elicited some interest from my companion as he entered from room.

"It is from the builders," I explained. "They tell me they have found evidence now of rising damp in the basement."

"Won't that counteract the effects of the dry rot?" said Holmes.

"I'm not sure it works like that." I set my cup aside with a sigh. "Yet another reason why I have made up my mind to postpone the arrangements for Thursday."

Holmes tossed a spent match into the grate. "You will not."

"I don't see how I can."

"Come hell or high water, Watson, Thursday you get married."

"With your brother missing and who knows what happening with the government?"

"In fairness, there is little you can do about either. I shall find Mycroft; you deal with your dry rot and rising damp and all the other little inconveniences that thrust themselves unbidden on the would-be householder."

"Holmes, if the worst has happened…"

As he drew on his cigarette, I noticed the slight tremble in his fingers. "If so, then delaying your nuptials will not bring him back. I have two full days to determine his fate, my own carelessness not withstanding. As for the government, they must take care of their own affairs. They wanted the glory of high office, let them deal with the consequences."

Mrs Hudson entered with the breakfast tray and the early editions. I was in the process of buttering myself a piece of toast when my eye lit upon a piece halfway down the front page entitled 'Revolutionary uprising in South America'.

"Holmes," I said, calling him over, "in which country were the gold reserves invested?"

I showed him the paper. Having read the account, he slumped into the chair opposite.

"I fear we are too late to prevent a national crisis," said he. "You understand the implication of this, of course. With their government overthrown and the country in chaos, the stocks we purchased are worthless."

I swallowed hard. "Does that mean…?"

Holmes nodded. "Yes, Watson. Thanks to my 'brother's' advice, this nation of ours stands on the verge of bankruptcy."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Five**__**!**_


	5. Chapter Five

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Five: Remember Danglars**

"The answer is elementary, Mr Holmes. Your brother is nothing more than a rank traitor and you are in league with him!"

I was fast discovering that Lord Pendleby, the present incumbent of the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer, was not a man to mince his words. Neither was he a man who took a broader view; I hesitate to suggest that such a blinkered way of looking at the world probably accounted for our current state of affairs. His solution to the problem was not particularly enlightened either.

"I say we arrest the both of them," he declared.

"On what charge?" Holmes countered.

"High treason. My only regret is that public hangings have fallen out of fashion."

From the vehemence of his speech and florid expression, I could well believe that Lord Pendleby had been opposed to the motion when it had been proposed in the House.

"Mr Holmes _says_ he does not know where his brother is," he went on. "But then he _says_ a great many things. He told us, for instance, that his brother was missing. Now we learn that he is dead. How you explain this, sir?"

"I have simply stated the facts."

"And we are expected to _accept_ your facts at face value."

"As you accepted that of my 'brother'?"

Lord Pendleby flushed red in the face. "Your brother, sir—"

"Was a good and loyal servant of the state. Do sit down, Pendleby. This isn't helping."

The voice of reason was that of the Prime Minister, who bore the weary expression of a man who would rather be tending his garden than facing a national financial crisis. The passion which had made his delivery of speeches in the House famed through the Empire seemed to have deserted him, and the man I saw seated at his desk appeared feeble, dwarfed by his surroundings and older than his 71 years. The steel grey hue of his hair had been bleached to a uniform white within a year of his entering office and the multitude of lines that furrowed his brow seemed to be permanently in place.

For all his kindly avuncular appearance, I was not prepared to trust to his sense of mercy. State funds had been invested, unwisely as it transpired, in a country that the very next day erupted in revolution. The money was lost and a scapegoat was required. No one attains high office by taking on that role for himself. For the present, the Premier appeared to be our only supporter; how long that situation continued in our favour was a matter of debate.

I include myself in the cast of players in this unpleasant scene, because when the summons from Downing Street had arrived shortly after our reading of the impending catastrophe in the newspaper, I had insisted on accompanying Holmes to the interview. He had suggested I would better to attend to the issues with my new premises; I had been adamant that rising damp was insignificant compared to the gravity of the situation at the Treasury. Besides which, I told him, I had seen this imposter and could testify to the excellence of his deception should any question arise over his brother's part in recent events.

Holmes had been less than convinced, but on occasion I can rise to the challenge and prove quite his equal in the field of mastery. Seeing my determination, he acquiesced and, employing his particularly grim vein of humour, said that a witness might be useful, especially if he was to be hauled off to the Tower. I did not find this amusing in the slightest, especially since the summons was accompanied by two members of the Household Cavalry, who escorted our waiting carriage through the streets to Westminster as closely as if we had been visiting dignitaries. If my thoughts were flying ahead to whatever fate awaited us, Holmes was less so and took great delight in enlightening me as to the nature of the situation.

"If you or I were to find ourselves without a penny to our names and a mountain of debts owing, we would indeed be insolvent," he had explained as we rattled along. "In the case of a country, however, the term bankruptcy cannot be used in the normal sense of the word. Rather a government that cannot meet its obligations is 'in default', for it is not judged on its assets, but on its ability to levy taxes. Therefore, it is not their debt, but rather ours, the poor taxpayer."

"Another penny on income tax then?"

"Several pounds more likely," Holmes had said gravely. "The problem, Watson, is one of confidence. Let us say that rumour gets about that your bank has very limited funds remaining. What happens? There is a run on that particular institution as the depositors try to recoup their money. The bank that cannot meet its obligations then fails, for who would be foolish enough to lend them money when there is small chance of ever getting it back. That it does not happen is owed in part largely to the perceived support of the gold reserves held at the Bank of England. That is what maintains people's confidence in the stability of the system."

I had swallowed hard. "And now they are gone?"

"National debt is nothing new. We still have yet to discharge certain debts from the Seven Years' War and those from the Napoleonic Wars shall be with our children long after we are gone to our graves. Now imagine the effect should those debts be called in all at once. We could raise the money, certainly, but it would take time. In addition, we would have to reciprocate and call in the debts owed to us. The result?"

"World economic chaos."

Holmes had nodded. "A grim scenario, I think you would agree. However, that is unlikely to happen. Qui bono? No, the greater likelihood is that the perception of our weakness would cause the already tense international situation to flare up into outright hostilities. Europe is a tinder-box and this would be the spark. In short, war, on a scale the like of which we have never seen before, fought in many theatres and at the cost of a hundred thousand lives and more." With that, he had sighed. "Not what you might call a propitious situation."

"Then you do believe that some foreign agency was behind this deception?"

"I do indeed. It was a most diabolical plan."

"And what of your brother?"

Holmes had bowed his head and the keen light of his eyes had faltered. "In truth," he said slowly, "I hope that he is dead. Do not think me insensitive, Watson. The alternative is worse. There are two types of people in government: those who know everything and those who _claim_ to know everything, which is quite another matter. Mycroft is the former and thus a prize worth having. He will tell them nothing, of course, which means they then must resort to more _persuasive_ methods of making him tell them what they want."

If my own stomach was churning at the thought of what that might involve, Holmes's expression had given no indication of the horrors of his own imagination.

"We were never what you might call close," he went on. "By the time I was of an age where we could have met as intellectual equals, he was gone. Since then, we have _tolerated_ each other's presence. He irritates me, he has an annoying propensity for always striking at the truth, despite appearing to do very little at all, and yet…" He looked away out of the window. "He must be found. He knows far too much about… the _accounts_," he said with care, "to be allowed to remain in enemy hands. I shall never accept that he is dead until I have seen his body for myself."

There had been a deep undercurrent of passion in that statement, which I did not need to question. If anyone could locate him, then I had every confidence that Sherlock Holmes would do exactly as he said. I could have wished for so much diligence in my search for my own brother. By the time news had reached me, he was already beyond my help. I wished Holmes better luck than I had had.

"You intend to leave without delay?"

"When I have gathered the necessary data, certainly. If in enemy hands, Mycroft could be anywhere. He may still be in London or he could have been taken abroad. Until I know more, it is impossible to theorise. In the meantime, it may be that you should look elsewhere for your best man, Watson. I shall be busy with my own affairs."

"I would not think of doing so. We can postpone the ceremony until you return."

"I cannot say when that may be. I could be gone a week, or it could be a year. Equally, it is possible that I may never return. It would be selfish of me to expect you to delay indefinitely."

"I could not think of marrying without having you there, Holmes."

A faint smile touched his mouth. "You have a most appalling streak of sentimentality, my dear fellow. It will be your undoing one of these days. What difference does it make whether I am there or not?"

"It matters," I stated.

Holmes raised an eyebrow and gave this due consideration. "Then I shall have to attend on Thursday or else yours might prove to be the longest engagement in history. It may yet be if the outcome of this interview is not favourable."

At the time, I had been dismissive of his remark. Since our admittance into the Premier's office, however, oppressive with its overlarge furniture, packed bookcases and the painted eyes of the line of his predecessors staring down at us from the walls, I was starting to have my doubts for how much longer we could expect to be at liberty. Nothing delays a wedding so much as when the bridegroom finds himself incarcerated, which if Lord Pendleby had his way would be happening sooner rather than later. Fortunately for us, he had been overruled and, broiling with indignation, had slunk into a chair, glaring at us all the while.

"Now, Mr Holmes," said the Premier, "I appreciate that you have the greater acquaintance with your brother. And yet, I am prepared to swear that the man to whom I spoke yesterday _was_ Mycroft Holmes."

"A most convincing actor."

Lord Pendleby snorted and was up out of his seat in an instant. "Then why is there a body at the Holborn mortuary identified by none other than yourself as your brother? You flatter yourself, sir, if you thought to keep such information from us. It is sheer folly to listen to any more of these lies, Prime Minister. They have planned this together. No doubt his brother has already fled the country after murdering this poor wretch whom Mr Holmes has then, by his own admission, falsely identified! Explain that, if you can."

"My concern was for Mycroft," said Holmes, preserving an admirable calm despite the rising level of tension in the room. "Someone has gone to a good deal of trouble to remove him and put an imposter in his place. By suppressing the news of his death, I judged that we stood a fair greater chance of delivering my brother from their clutches and discovering their intentions if they were not alarmed into flight."

"Their intention was to bring this country to its knees," said the Premier, sighing softly. "And in that they have succeeded. As for your brother..." He glanced up at my friend. "I am sorry for what has happened to Mycroft. Despite the accusations being bandied about by certain of us, I have long had every faith in him. However, we must now assume that he is lost. It is well that you brought this to our attention. Certain arrangements shall have to be made in light of what you have told us in the interests of internal security."

"If we do that, people will know something is amiss," said Lord Pendleby.

"How can we do otherwise?"

"Chaos and infamy! That is the result of this villainy. Someone shall answer for this outrage, Mr Holmes, you may count on that. Since your brother is not here, then you and your fellow conspirator here shall have to suffice."

I started from my chair, but Holmes waved me back. "Dr Watson is here only to confirm what I have said about the approximate time of Mycroft's disappearance."

"And for that we thank you, Doctor," said the Premier, bestowing a kindly smile in my direction. "However, it does not change the fact that this imposter was clever enough to fool us all."

"May I ask, sir, exactly how dire is the situation?" said Holmes.

"Dire enough." The other occupant of the room, Lord Rossdale, the Home Secretary, who had been watching this exchange in silence, now took up the tale. A thoughtful, spare man in his late 50s, he had sat apart from us during the interview, his fingers steepled, apparently content to play the role of quiet observer. Of the three, his profile was the most striking: a profusion of dark, wavy locks, tamed and neatly parted framed about a fine, serious countenance with its strong jaw, prominent Roman nose and eyes so pale that the blue seemed to have an almost milky quality. "The sum in question is considerable, its loss... inconvenient in the current state of European politics."

"I will not deny that the investment carried some risk," said the Premier. "Which is why we were happy to accept your brother's advice in the matter. Other ventures he has recommended in the past have proved successful. Nor were we entirely unfamiliar with certain rumours coming out of that country, talk of gold and diamond deposits. The potential return on our investment was favourable."

"Despite the uncertain political situation."

"Our reports suggested otherwise," said Lord Pendleby, sniffing disparagingly. "We do not act on mere whims, Mr Holmes. We are not amateurs."

I glanced at Holmes and smiled. Wisely, we said nothing.

"On the contrary, the country seemed stable, politically and socially," said Lord Rossdale. "This is the first we have heard of an uprising."

At this, I noticed the slight narrowing of Holmes's eyes. "What have you heard since?"

The Premier spread his hands. "Nothing. No communications are getting in or out."

"Nothing?" I echoed. "Isn't that rather strange?"

"The country is in turmoil, Doctor."

"A fact which you have yet to confirm," said Holmes.

"We have instructed an agent to investigate," said Lord Rossdale. "He will cross the border at noon."

"As if we had time to waste," said Lord Pendleby bitterly. "We should sell our stocks now and recoup what money we can."

"Would it not be better to wait for news?" said Holmes.

The Premier shook his head. "I have no reason to doubt the report, the last sent out before communications were severed. The value of the stocks has since tumbled. They are worthless."

"Almost worthless," Lord Pendleby corrected him.

"Then what do you stand to lose by waiting a day more?"

"The difference between pounds and pennies, Mr Holmes. Against such considerations, do you have any reason to offer why we should wait?" The Premier leaned his elbows on the desk and regarded my friend with interest. "Your brother was a man of rare intellect. I had great respect for his wisdom. He spoke about you much, and if half of what he claimed is true, I would be compounding an error by not hearing you out. If then, you have something to say, let us hear it."

Holmes took his time in replying. "My field, Prime Minister, is that of crime. I would not presume to tell you how to do your job any more than you would mine. However, an essential truth of both our chosen professions is that there is no crime or machination of government that has not been thought of by other men."

"You have a particular incident in mind?"

"I am sure you could furnish me with far more examples than I could produce," Holmes smiled. "All I will say is this: remember Danglars."

For a long time, the Premier stared at him uncomprehending. Then the light of understanding came to his troubled eyes, and he sat back in his chair and began to laugh.

"My word," said he. "Can it really be as simple as that?"

"What the devil are you driving at, Mr Holmes?" demanded Lord Pendleby. "Who or what is Danglars?"

"A consideration," said Holmes. "And a warning."

"Duly taken," said the Premier. "We have detained you both for long enough. You go, I take it, to search for your brother? Very well. I wish you Godspeed and the best of luck."

"I never found luck to be dependable, sir. I prefer to place my trust in my own abilities."

"As you wish. Find him, Mr Holmes. That much you can do for your government. The rest you must trust to us."

We took our leave and with little regret for my part. Outside, the air was washed and clean, a balm to the senses after the closeness of the Premier's office. The wind had not abated and papered us with russet leaves and the odd sheet from a discarded newspaper. The policeman on duty outside the door endeavoured to contain his displeasure when a lost umbrella wrapped itself around his legs and we left him struggling with a mass of broken wires and fabric as we headed out into the bustling thoroughfare of Whitehall.

"Well, Watson," said Holmes as we made our way along the crowded pavement. "What do you make of him?"

"The Prime Minister? He appears to be a most noble gentleman. It almost makes me wish I had voted for his party at the last election."

Holmes chuckled. "If nothing else good is to come out of this fiasco, then at least he has your support. That must be some consolation. Given Pendleby's preoccupation with our arrest, however, I should not make your former preferences known. With that in mind, we should devote our attention to our commission. We have but one avenue of investigation in the search for my brother, namely in discovering the identity of the mysterious gentleman who took his place. From him, I hope to follow the trail back to his employers."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"By finding his lady friend. If you have business to attend to, Watson, please do not let me detain you. All I need is the address where you saw this fellow and his red-headed _amour_."

"I shall take you there. I could do no less in the circumstances."

Holmes rewarded me with the briefest of smiles. "The pleasure of your company would be most welcome, as always."

"There is one thing though." Holmes paused to dislodge a leaf that he had speared on the end of his walking stick. "You could tell me who Danglars is or was."

It was the noise that arrested me first. A whipcrack of sound that reverberated along the street, carried into confusion by the relentless wind. Barely a heartbeat later came a clatter and a thud, as something weighty hit the ground. A momentary pause, as though all around had taken a collective inhalation of breath, quickly followed by a woman's cry of alarm, mingled with shouts and the shrill note of a policeman's whistle.

And then it was that I realised that Holmes was no longer at my side.

* * *

_**Does anyone know who Danglars is? I suspect Holmes won**__**'t be able to tell Watson...**_

_**Continued in Chapter Six! **_


	6. Chapter Six

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Six: Bullets, Books & Back to Bloomsbury**

He was lying where he had fallen, eyes closed. For one horrifying moment, I thought he was dead. Then he took a great, gulping breath and his eyelids fluttered open. I saw confusion in his eyes, the bewildered look of shock and disbelief that holds sway in the seconds before the realisation dawns that a bullet has entered one's flesh and left a bloody chasm of torn arteries and shredded organs in its wake. It is a look I have seen too many times on the battlefields of Afghanistan and in my dreams since.

The crowd that was gathering around us, offering murmured sympathies and platitudes, were not helping matters. Holmes began to struggle to sit up and with effort I held him back.

"Don't move," I told him. "You've been shot. Where were you hit?"

His hand was hovering over a place just below his ribcage. Buttons scattered as I tore open his shirt. My relief was indescribable as I found nothing but an angry red welt on his skin. That I could find no injury made me wonder whether I had mistaken what I had thought was a pistol shot. One never forgets that sound, however incongruous the surroundings, and I found myself questioning whether it was Holmes who was in error about the location of his injury. I have had patients who have walked a mile with broken bones only to tell me that they were quite well, proof that the mind is capable of overriding the weaknesses of the flesh when the body is wounded.

"Are you sure?" I said.

He nodded. The glazed look had left his eyes and he was swiftly regaining his mastery of the situation. "Help me up."

"Holmes, you may have been seriously hurt."

"I hit my head on the pavement and my arm has begun to bleed again," said he. "Apart from that, I have come through the episode remarkably intact. My pride, however, is somewhat distressed by the spectacle we are making of ourselves. And, heaven help us, here comes the local bobby. Help me up, Watson."

I offered him my hand and he staggered to his feet. A puffing policeman was quickly upon us, red-faced from his exertions and thoroughly indignant at having been called away from his tea of jam and bread, the remains of which were still plastered to his cheeks. Three overloud pipes on his whistle so close to my head that my ears began to ring was his contribution to the mêlée before he stuck out his chest, produced his notebook and began to regard us all as though we were ragamuffin urchins up to no good.

"What's all this? What's all this?" he demanded, both times unnecessarily.

"This man's been shot," said one voice.

"We's all seen it," said another.

"Down he went like a sack of ruddy taters [1], he did. I ain't ever seen nothing like it in me life."

"Now he's up again. It's a bleedin' miracle."

"Shot? With a gun?" asked the policeman.

"No, with a bow and arro'!"

The crowd laughed.

"Now look here, Robin Hood," said the policeman, waggling his pencil at the grinning face. "If there's been an h'incident, I'll be dealing with it. You, sir, you've been shot, you say?"

"No," said Holmes. "I don't say."

"But you were on the floor?"

"Yes, I came over dizzy."

"After you were shot?"

"Constable, I was not shot. I am, as you can see, quite well."

"That's a matter of opinion, sir," said he. "I'll have to have your name for my report, and yours," he said, nodding to me. "There's something funny going on round here. I could've sworn I heard a shistol pot [2]."

The crowd guffawed again. The constable grew ever redder in the face.

"Right, now you lot can clear orf," he announced. "Or I'll have the whole bleedin' lot arrested for loiterin' and making a nuisance of yourselves."

The threat of an imminent exercise of authority worked its magic. Our gathering of ghoulish onlookers, initially disappointed that no one had been injured, fatally or otherwise, went about their business, grumbling something uncharitable about the heavy-handed way in which their afternoon's entertainment had been spoilt.

"Now, sir, about my report—"

"Is there a need, Constable?" said Holmes. "I apologise unreservedly for the fuss I have caused. My companion will confirm that I haven't been well."

He looked to me for corroboration. "No, he hasn't," I agreed. "He was hit by a cab this morning."

The constable pursed his lips. "Not your day, is it, sir?"

"No, it isn't." Holmes was being unusually contrite, which alerted me that he had some good reason to wish to avoid admitting the truth of what had happened. "I should be getting home, Constable. I do not feel up to the task of accompanying you to the police station."

"That's as maybe," said the noble fellow. "But what of that noise? Did you hear it, sir?"

"A window slammed shut? Whitehall is hardly the place for pistol practice."

"You're quite right about that, sir. They're very particular about things that like around here. We have to be on our guard for wandering lunatics since that Perceval gent got himself shot [3], and if some damned fool is letting off his gun in the precincts of the Palace of Westminster, it's my job to report it. Now, were you shot or weren't you?"

After what seemed an age, we finally convinced the constable that Holmes was uninjured and the mystery noise that had roused him from his meal was something other than someone discharging a weapon. He left, clearly unhappy at what seemed to him an unresolved situation, and went in search of someone to arrest, not before telling Holmes to 'do his shirt up and make himself look decent' on account of there being women and Members of Parliament in the vicinity. Quite who he thought would be the most affected by the sight of my friend's bare chest, he did not say.

"I am not sure," said Holmes with some amusement, "that our Parliamentary representatives deserve such consideration as to be ranked alongside the gentler sex in terms of sensibility. However, I am quite prepared to take his word in the matter. Watson, would you be so good as to call us a cab?"

Transport was the last thing on my mind. "Holmes, what just happened?"

"A cab, my dear fellow," he insisted. "For heaven's sake, let us away from this interminable throng."

A few moments later, we were safely installed in a four-wheeler and heading towards Bloomsbury. Holmes, clearly in some discomfort, straightened his collar and attempted, with the aid of a pin or two, to offer a presentable appearance.

"I'm not all together sure that you haven't ruined this shirt," said he with some asperity. "First my coat this morning, and now this. If this keeps up, I shall be turning out to your wedding in hired clothes."

"Forgive my misplaced concern," I countered. "I had erroneously assumed that you had been shot."

"Oh, you were not in error."

So saying, he patted his waistcoat, delved into the pocket and produced the box which contained Mary's wedding ring. I had entrusted this small cube of perfection to his care; now the green velvet was torn and the white satin liner was revealed for all to see. A small cylinder of dulled metal protruded from the centre, impaling both the box and the ring within. We forced open the lid to find that the bullet had twisted the gold circlet into a distorted and monstrous shape. It was ruined and beyond repair. But it had saved the life of my dearest friend.

"A million to one chance," said he. "But for this pretty token, I might at this very moment have been bleeding on the pavements of Westminster. Your impending marriage, Watson, is proving to be a felicitous affair. I may even have to revise my opinion of it. This ring I shall keep as a reminder that wisdom comes is the strangest of forms, if you have no objections. Have no fear; I shall see that a replacement is found in time."

He prised the bullet from its lily-like indentation in the gold and taking out his lens, which now sported a crack across the glass, examined it as best he could.

"Hard-nosed. From a Martini-Henry rifle, unless I am much mistaken."

"I seem to recall you saying in the business of the Sign of Four that you would rather face a Martini bullet than one of Tonga's darts. Now you have, and, I am glad to say, lived to tell the tale."

"I shall have to be more careful what I say in future if my words are proving prescient." He closed his hand around the bullet and considered. "There is nothing like an attempt at murder to add spice to an investigation. Had I admitted as much to that officious constable, we would have wasted hours in a futile search for the assassin. It would have been impossible to convince him that this attempt had another motive altogether. Do you not see the significance of the bullet? Hard-nosed, Watson – it would have gone straight through me. If memory serves, there are a number of places where a bullet may pass through the body without causing death."

"Perhaps not death, but grievous injury."

"Then that is what they intended. Come, Watson, why not the head or heart if our would-be assassin wished to kill me? This would have been a lesser injury, but you would agree that I would have been severely incommoded and unable to continue my investigation."

"Holmes, I do not wish to discuss what _could_ have happened. Bad enough that I thought…" I stopped myself in time. "That is to say, I thought you had been severely wounded."

"I had the wind knocked out of me, nothing more." He seemed unaware that the incident might have had an equal effect on me. "It took me quite by surprise, I am ashamed to say. It is not often I am felled by a blow."

"You were lucky not to have been felled _permanently_, if you ask me."

"It may yet come to that," said he unconcernedly.

I stared at him.

"In light of this incident, I must also consider my collision with the cab this morning to have a more sinister intent. Someone wishes to incapacitate me. Twice they have failed to do so; therefore, I must consider the possibility they will try again. Why? To prevent my finding my brother? That is the most likely explanation. Which may – and I stress may – mean that Mycroft is at large, and that they desire to reach him before I do. Then where, _where_ the devil is he?"

A hectic flush had risen to his cheeks and his features had become tense and alert. To a less intimate acquaintance, his perusal of the street appeared to be nothing more than an attention at diversion. Knowing his methods and habits as well as I did, however, I could tell from the far-away, introspective look that had come to his eyes that he was lost in thought.

"The problem of it is," said he, starting from his brown study, "that I have no conception of what would have driven Mycroft from his usual routine."

"It must have been something exceptional."

He grunted an agreement. "But what? Something personal? My brother's life is intensely _im_personal. Something pertaining to his work then? But why leave and not inform his superiors? No, Watson, this is not clear to me. Let's hope that our imposter's lady friend has some crumb to set us upon his trail."

Talk of his brother finally prompted something that had been nagging away at me all day. "Your brother, Mycroft," I said. "Does he _really_ audit the books?"

Sherlock Holmes spared me a fleeting glance. "Oh, yes."

"And the Prime Minster decides matters of national policy based on his opinion?"

"Do you find that strange?"

He said it as a challenge, from which I am sorry to say I quailed. I had no wish to pry into his family affairs. Besides, I had learnt long ago that once my reticent companion had set his mind to keeping information from me, no power on earth would prise it from him, lest of all my appealing to his better nature and the bonds of friendship. Wisely, I chose to move on to safer ground.

"The Premier appeared to take your advice," I said. "I wish you would explain the significance of 'Danglars'. I must confess to being in the dark about its relevance."

Holmes gave a mirthless laugh. "Baron Danglars is a literary character in Dumas' _The Count of Monte Cristo._ I am surprised at you, Watson. Have you never read it?"

"Certainly I have. But you do not mean to tell me that _you_ have read it?"

"Why should I not?"

"It hardly seems to your taste, Holmes."

He sniffed deprecatingly. "It would not be my first choice, but then I thought we had established that you are a poor judge of the limits of my interests. As I recall, 'Knowledge of Literature—Nil', and, although I would hesitate to place such a work on the same level as Shakespeare, into that category it does fall, unless you would prefer, for the sake of your pride, to term it 'Sensational Literature'."

"Ever since I made that accursed list, you have gone out of your way to prove me wrong. Except," I added chuckling, "with regards to your knowledge of practical gardening, or do you claim to be an expert on that also?"

"I may one day surprise you."

"That I do not doubt for one moment. But Dumas, Holmes?"

"It was the winter of 1861, the Prince Consort had died and I had chickenpox. Plato was considered too taxing for the brain of a convalescent, so I was provided with material of a more frivolous nature. In the event, I am glad I was. Knowledge is never wasted and one never knows when such seemingly trivial and out-of-the-way information may prove useful. The central plot of the story was not a new one, of course. I was gratified some years later to find a similar incident mentioned in Jacques Peuchet's collection of criminal cases from the archives of the Paris Police, _Mémoires Historiques Tirés Des Archives de la Police de Paris_ [4], which restored my faith in the certainty that life is more ingenious than anything fiction can invent. The idea of the wronged man revenging the wrongs perpetrated against him, only to learn that his actions may wreak havoc in the lives of the innocent as well as the guilty and thus acknowledging the limits of human justice, is an interesting one. Is it enough, we may wonder, to trust that 'all human wisdom is contained in these two words—'Wait and hope', in the expectation that the good shall be rewarded and the bad punished?"

"If that were the case, you would find yourself out of work."

"Quite so, Watson, proof, if any were needed, that mankind prefers to place its faith in the justice of the here and now, for all its faults. Man may tire of waiting and what is hope but the antithesis of despair? Nothing rankles so much as inequity, and I am not so sure that I would have been content to wait for the judgement of Providence had I been in a similar situation."

"Not that you would ever consider taking the law into your own hands."

Holmes returned my smile. "If there are times, Watson, when justice overtakes a villain, is it my place to interfere with the natural order of things? Every case must be viewed on its own merits and, if I choose from time to time to exercise my own discretion, I trust I have endeavoured to observe the spirit of the law, if not the letter. We are all of us flawed, after all."

There were, I thought, a number of people who might take issue with this particular point of view. Holmes's attitude was ever that his unofficial status bestowed upon him the right to private judgement. On a number of occasions, I have concurred with his decision; on others, especially where he felt no compunction at breaking the law on the grounds of moral justifiability, perhaps less so. What interested me was the source from which this remarkable conceit flowed.

"No doubt there is some truth in what you say," I remarked. "However, I fail to see what relevance this has to the crisis at the Treasury. Or why the Prime Minister should understand your meaning?"

"Did you not notice the assortment of titles on his bookcase, Watson? My confidence in the man is somewhat shaken in discovering his liking for Mr Pickwick, Robinson Crusoe and Tristram Shandy; still, he would be a very dull fellow if he read nothing but Hansard. The allusion to Danglars was a cautious move on my part. One never knows if one is in the company of friends."

"But what _was_ the allusion?"

"Danglars, the banker, was ruined after acting on a false telegraph sent by Monte Cristo, which claimed that a revolution was about to break out in Spain. Based on this report, he sold his Spanish bonds, which he had purchased on the Count's advice. He believed he had saved his fortune—until the following day when the report of impending unrest was found to be mistaken. As a result, Danglars lost a great deal of money."

"Good heavens. Do you mean to say you believe that is the case in this instance?"

"A previously stable country suddenly erupts into revolution without warning? Does not that strike you as unusual? I should be most wary of acting before I had more information."

"What of the lack of communications?"

Holmes considered. "_Something_ has happened to cause the people to abandon the telephone exchanges and the telegraph offices, but I should hesitate to speculate as to the cause. It may be innocuous, in which case to sell the stocks now with panic in the air would be ruinous to our national finances."

"And," I said hesitantly, "if you are wrong?"

"Then I should dust off your old army uniform and prepare for war."

The rest of the journey passed in silence as I meditated on what Holmes had said. I had more reason to trust his judgement than any other, and yet I had my doubts. Such were my sombre thoughts as our cab negotiated the packed streets of Holborn, passing a sheeted building, which I took to be the scene of yesterday's tragedy. We left the crowds behind and headed towards Russell Square, forsaking the main roads to plunge into the warren-like lanes and streets away from the busy thoroughfare. The drab buildings rose up on every side, like the tarnished walls of a canyon, half in light, half in shade.

We alighted in the road I had travelled the day before and I tried to remember the exact location of the house where I had seen the imposter Mycroft Holmes. My memory did not fail me and soon we were stood outside the ramshackle edifice with its grey curtains, drooping plants slowly dying on sun-baked ledges and smattering of dead flies entombed between the glass and a faded sign announcing 'P.R.F.G.' in the front window. Holmes started towards the door, I following, only to find myself stopped before my foot had ever reached the bottom step.

"Thank you, Watson," said he. "I think it would be better if I handled this alone."

His brusqueness left me smarting. "You don't want me with you?"

"My dear fellow, with you at my side I would walk into the fires of hell, but not I fear into a house that offers 'Private Rooms for Gentleman' [5]. Must I remind you that you are about to be wed? You would do well to remember that the probability of being observed is in direct proportion to the recklessness of one's actions. Would you wish word to reach your fiancée's ear that you have been seen entering such an establishment?"

"Certainly not."

"Then I shall meet you at the corner. Wait for me there. This won't take long."

I took Holmes's good advice and several minutes later I observed him coming towards me.

"The lady's name is Sally Crabtree, 'Red Sal' to her friends on account of the extraordinary colour of her hair," he told me as we walked. "The landlady also remembers my 'brother'. She said he gave her a decent tip for her consideration. He was generous, that is something in his favour."

"How did you get this information?"

"Watson, you would have been most shocked." Holmes grinned. "I expressed myself to be an ardent admirer of the lady's charms and asked for an audience. Apparently, Miss Crabtree is a regular, although recently she has taken up with a 'gentleman' – my alleged brother – and there has been talk of settling down. The landlady was good enough to furnish me with the name of a bar where Miss Crabtree might be found at this time of day. So intimate an acquaintance must have something to tell us of our imposter's identity. Well, my dear fellow, are you coming?"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Seven!**_

* * *

[1] taters = potatoes. Slang.

[2] Otherwise known as a spoonerism.

[3] Spencer Perceval, PM, assassinated in the lobby of the House of Commons, 1812.

[4] Published 1838, the work included the case of the tale of a shoemaker named Pierre Picaud, who was falsely imprisoned in 1807 and spent the next ten years after his release plotting his revenge against his accusers. This case _possibly_ inspired Dumas's story.

[5] Gentleman who needed a private and discreet place to meet their _amours_ took advantage of the service offered by private house owners who let rooms on a short-term basis by advertising 'P.R.F.G.' notices in their front windows.


	7. Chapter Seven

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Seven: The ****Mucky Duck**

According to our information, Miss Crabtree was to be found at a public house known locally as 'The Mucky Duck'. This meant nothing to me. Holmes, however, was on what he described as 'familiar territory'. He also had greater good fortune than had I the previous day and managed to find a cab, instructing the man to take us to Clerkenwell.

"You will recall," said he as we left the sooty Georgian terraces of Bloomsbury behind, "that when I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street. In the absence of cases, I filled my days with study and an exploration of my immediate locale. My knowledge of this part of the capital is, I dare say, second to none, except perhaps Dickens who was a noted and celebrated pedestrian."

"All the same," I said, "I wonder that I have not heard of such a tavern before now."

"No doubt you have. I should also say that there is a good chance you may have frequented the establishment in your salad days. It is not far from St Bart's after all."

This left me more mystified than before. Whilst I do not profess to having Holmes's degree of knowledge of the London, I fancy that I could find my way well enough through the less-travelled streets. The area of Smithfield around the old hospital was particularly familiar to me, having been the scene of some of my more high-spirited youthful indiscretions, including an incident when, with several of my fellows, we had decamped somewhat the worse for wear to Charterhouse Square, that area built over a former plague pit, and pressed our ears to the ground, listening for the eternal agonies and laments of those poor souls thrown in amongst the dead in the days when the determination of the extinction of life was haphazard to say the least.

In that annoying way of his, Holmes would not be drawn and so our journey passed in silence. We weaved our way through the narrow lanes, past Farringdon Street Station, veiled with its perpetual haze of smoke from the hurly-burly of incoming trains, and on to Smithfield itself, where the monumental iron awnings and sturdy pillars tried in vain to give a modicum of grandeur to an place that had only recently pulled itself from the mire of blood, foam, stench and noise that had made the old meat market notorious. The slaughterman's work was no long done on site, but still the air carried that rancorous odour of the butcher's shop. Skeletal dogs scavenged around the stalls in search of choice pickings, watched by lounging men drinking away their wages at the nearby public houses, ever ready to provide for the needs of those whose working day started before dawn.

I imagined that our destination was a newer establishment. An inspection of the signs dangling above the street doors proved otherwise and many were rather more familiar to me than I should have liked to admit. Behind the old church of St Bartholomew-the-Great, our cab came to a halt, depositing us at 'The White Swan'. In answer to my query, Holmes pointed with his stick to the swinging sign, emblazoned with a creature which I remembered well and which resembled more an ugly duckling than any swan I had ever seen, with its dirty grey plumage and pig-like head.

"'The Mucky Duck', as the locals have it," said Holmes.

"I've never heard it called that before," I returned.

"That is because you were a student, not a local. Do you want to wait out here?"

I declined, on the grounds that I could not spend the rest of my life avoiding any place that might be unrespectable simply because of my imminent change in status as a married man. Our mission was innocent enough, after all. Did not the motto of the Knights of the Garter state 'evil on him who thinks evil of it', said I? Holmes did not attempt to dissuade me, although he muttered something along the lines of a woman's mind being able to extract the implication of evil from any given situation, however innocent.

The atmosphere was already heavy with the twin odours of beer and tobacco. A number of rough-looking sorts paused in their drinking to stare at us, and I began to feel curiously ill-at-ease. I was about to say as much to my companion, only to find myself struck speechless by his sudden change in appearance. A pair of wire-framed glasses now perched on his nose and his cheeks seemed more sunken than ever. His chin jutted and his lips had compressed into a hard, thin line. The transformation was extraordinary, even more so because I had not seen it take place.

In this guise, he strode purposefully towards the counter and addressed the unsmiling barmaid.

"Good day to you, mistress," said he in an affected, high-pitched voice rather in the fashion of an admonitory clergyman. "I wondered if you might consider assisting us."

She looked from one to the other of us, still unsmiling, and continued in her cursory wiping of a glass with a much-stained cloth. "Might do," said she noncommittally.

"Excellent, excellent!" Holmes chirruped. "That is good news, isn't it, Mr Turner?"

He glanced at me and I gathered this was the name he had allotted to me for the duration of our enterprise. "Good news, yes," I agreed wholeheartedly.

"Now, my good woman, perhaps you could direct us to a Miss Sally Crabtree? We understand she works here."

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" The glass came down with a thump, causing a coating of yellowing suds to splatter across the counter top. "I've had enough of you types, coming down here sniffing around. Well, she's getting married and good luck to her, I say. So you can get out, you and your 'friend'."

"I assure you," Holmes spluttered, "that our intentions towards the lady are honourable."

"That's what they all say. Jim!"

A large, brawny man parted company from the bar and came to stand behind us. I hoped whatever the next few minutes might bring did not involve us having to find out whether Jim was as skilled with his fists as the scars of old battles on his knuckles suggested.

"There is no need for violence," said Holmes. "We wished to see the lady only on account—"

"You can wish what you like. You still ain't going to see her."

"Of a legacy. We are solicitors."

The mood palpably altered. "Well, why didn't you say so?" said she, flapping her cloth at Jim, who grudgingly retreated. "Sal!" she hollered over her shoulder. "Get out here, girl. There's a couple of blokes what's got money for you."

The woman who emerged from the room beyond the bar was the same I had seen the previous day. In the gloom of the dimly-lit bar, the flame of her hair had dulled to copper, but that oval face with its knowing eyes was unmistakeable. The slightest of nods was all it took from me to confirm the identification, and our interview proceeded under the watchful eye of the barmaid.

"Miss Sally Crabtree?" said Holmes. "I am Mr Giles, senior partner with the firm of solicitors of Cranley, Giles and Braithwaite of Northampton. This is my associate, Mr Turner."

Her eyes widened with alarm. "Solicitors? Here, I'm not in some sort of trouble, am I?"

"Not in the least, my dear, not in the least. Quite the contary, in fact. Is..." He cast a dubious glance around him. "There some place a little more private that we might talk?"

She gestured for us to follow her to a table in an alcove at the far end of the room. The solitary drinker already there was sent on his way to make space for us, and he retreated, grumbling, to pour out his woes to the barmaid and beg another drink. We settled ourselves on chairs harder than I remembered and tried to keep our arms away from the dripping, beer-stained table.

"Now, Miss Crabtree," Holmes continued, "I have the sad duty of representing the interests of the late Mr Elias Brown, formerly of Northampton, in respects of his Last Will and Testament."

"I don't know him," said she. "Leastways, I don't think I do. I don't always get their names."

"Quite so, quite so. Mr Brown left a considerable fortune, a sum of which he has bequeathed to the gentleman who I understand is your fiancé, a Mr..." He frowned as though trying to recall the name.

"You mean my Stan?" she offered.

"Stan?"

"That's what I calls him. His real name's Swithin Harper, only he don't look like no Swithin I've ever seen, so I calls him Stan. It suits him better, like."

"Mr Swithin Harper, yes, that was the name," said Holmes, nodding approvingly. "Well, Miss Crabtree, if you could give us some indication of where the gentleman is to be found, we shall be able to settle this matter without further ado. I must tell you, Mr Harper is a very difficult man to locate. We almost began to despair, didn't we, Mr Turner?"

"Yes, Mr Giles, we did," I agreed.

"He gets around a bit," said she. "Even I don't know where he is all the time. And dead crafty about it too. He never mentioned nothing to me about no Mr Brown. What was he to my Stan?"

"Mr Brown never explained."

"Here, perhaps he was that father Stan's always going on about. He never knew his real dad, see – Stan said he hopped off afore he was born – but he's always said he was related to someone important. He told me that's why he'd come down to London, and he was on to a good thing, because the family didn't want him making a fuss." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. Cold beer slopped into my lap as she jogged the table. "Hush money, if you know what I mean. He said he had one job to do and, when he was paid off, we'd get married."

"Did he give any indication as to the identity of his employer?"

She gave a vehement shake of her head. "Said it was better I didn't know. Although when he was in his cups one night he told me he'd soon be mixing with the highest in the land. Well, I thought he meant on the stage, like. He'd done a bit of acting up North."

"Where exactly 'up North'?"

"Didn't say. He said he'd left all that behind him. Me and him, we're going to make a fresh start and move down to the Isle of Wight when he gets his money." She giggled. "He says he likes the thought of living on an island. Fancy that, me living within spitting distance of Her Royal Highness." [1]

Holmes forced a smile. "I am sure Her Majesty will prove a most accommodating neighbour. As to the present, do you have an address for Mr Harper?"

She gave us the name of a lodging house in Prentice Street, Islington, adding a doubt that, since he told her he was going to be away for a few days on 'business' as he had put it, we were unlikely to find him there. I could not help but think how she had unknowingly struck at the truth. Mr Swithin Harper – or at least the late Mr Harper, now residing at the mortuary – would never return to the lodging house again.

"Was it necessary to give her false hope?" I asked as we emerged into daylight.

"She would not have been so candid had we told her the real nature of our inquiries."

"All the same, lying to the poor creature like that, it does not sit well with me, Holmes. She should be told what has happened to her fiancé."

"But not by us, Watson. It is enough that we have the fellow's address. Let us go there now and see what we may find. Then we shall inform the police and give our Mr Harper his real name." He sighed deeply. "And then I must try to explain to Lestrade why I knowingly misidentified the body. The prospect is not one that I relish."

"I am sure he will understand when you explain the circumstances."

"He isn't likely to let me forget it either. He has a long memory when it suits him does the Inspector."

A minute later, we were in a hansom and hurrying towards to Mrs Sterne's Lodging House for Gentleman. The lady in question was out, although we had the good fortune to meet an inebriated young man in checked trousers who came idling out of the front door. When we stated our purpose, he gave us a dubious look.

"You here to collect a debt?" he wanted to know. "Not blooming bluebottles, are you?"

"We are friends of Mr Harper," said I. "He missed our meeting this morning and we have concerns for his welfare."

The fellow's eyes rolled and he had to hang on to the railings to steady himself. "Well, you won't find him there. He ain't been back since... since... here, what day is it today?"

After some discussion, he finally agreed to let us in and directed us to the room on the first floor where Mr Harper had his lodgings. The prospect of a locked door would have presented a formidable obstacle to most, but not so my companion, who knelt before the keyhole, gave it a cursory glance and declared that he would have it open in no time at all.

"Is this wise?" said I. "Entering another man's room without his permission?"

"My brother's life is at stake, Watson. The cause is morally justified, wouldn't you agree? In any case, I doubt Mr Harper is in any position to complain."

"No, but Mrs Sterne might have something to say about. One day, Holmes, you'll go too far."

"I cannot simply 'wait and hope'," said he tersely. "But what's this? It seems your conscience can rest easy, my dear fellow. Someone has beaten us to it."

He had tested the handle and to both our surprise it had yielded. With a snort of triumph, he threw the door open wide – to reveal a police constable within, who rose briskly from his chair and promptly gave three loud blasts on his whistle. From downstairs came the sound of running feet and what sounded like a herd of cattle charging up the stairs.

"I hate to say I told you so," I muttered.

"Then don't," Holmes returned. "Ah, Constable, let me explain…"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Eight!**_

* * *

[1] Osbourne House, Queen Victoria's summer residence on the Isle of Wight.


	8. Chapter Eight

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Eight: A Simple Misunderstanding**

"You do realise, Mr Holmes, that breaking and entering is a very serious charge?"

Several unhappy hours had passed since we had blundered unknowingly into a trap laid by N Division's finest [1]. Our inebriated friend at the door in checked trousers and striped waistcoat had proved to be none other than a plain clothes detective sergeant by the name of Franklin, who listened to our story first with apparent sympathy, only to then pronounce that he would have to lay it all before his superior.

We were shuffled away to the headquarters of the Islington branch and left with lean, craggy-faced Inspector Bland, who bore an expression of almost permanent weariness and showed little sign of enthusiasm even when his sergeant said that in his opinion we were 'a shifty-looking pair of reprobates with dubious credentials and an iffy story'.

I had protested most vigorously against this charge, although Holmes had seemed to find it most amusing. That I had also lied about our reasons for wanting to see Mr Swithin Harper did not help our cause. When Holmes's attempt at an explanation had fallen on deaf or disinterested ears, his next suggestion was that Bland contact Scotland Yard, where a certain Inspector Lestrade would vouch for us.

To judge from the look of discontent that settled on the Inspector's features, I gathered that involving the Yard was the last thing he wanted to do. However, we were insistent and he finally relented. Until the matter could be settled satisfactorily, so he said, we could consider ourselves 'detained', for whilst there was much talk of arrest for criminal trespass, the actual charge had yet to be made.

Finally, after much wasted time, in which Holmes endeavoured to restraint his more impatient instincts and I took to glancing at my watch with monotonous regularity, the door had finally opened and our liberator had appeared in person, accompanied by a scowling Bland with his terrier-like sergeant yapping at his heels. Lestrade had had the courtesy to appear dismayed when the situation was explained, although whether he was entirely surprised was another matter.

"You wouldn't like to tell us why you felt the need to break in to this Mr Harper's rooms, would you, Mr Holmes?" he asked, dabbing at his dripping nose with a generous handkerchief as he spoke.

"I fear Inspector Bland has left you labouring under a misapprehension, Lestrade," said Holmes, rising briskly to his feet. "At no time did we 'break in', as you put it. The door was, in fact, unlocked."

Lestrade sniffed. "Is that right?"

The question was directed at Bland, who remained stolidly tight-lipped on the subject. I gathered he was still smarting from the indignity of having his territory invaded, so that it fell to his sergeant to reply.

"Well, yes, sir, it was. We didn't have the key, you see, and Mrs Sterne the landlady, she wouldn't let us have her one—"

"Do you mean to tell me," Bland interjected, "that the door to that room was open all the time? Didn't I tell you to keep the place under observation in case our man came back?"

"Constable Erskine was in there, Inspector. As to the door, it was shut, sir, just not locked. I didn't think it would matter."

"Heaven help us," muttered Bland, shaking his head.

"Then that just leaves the question of the trespass," said Lestrade.

"As I have tried to explain," said Holmes with some impatience, "neither Watson nor I set a foot across the threshold until told to do so by the constable."

"So, what it boils down to is that all you did was to open a door." Lestrade glared at the two local men. "And you got me all the way over here for this?"

Bland rose up to his full, if unimpressive, height, still managing to best Lestrade by several inches. "Too good for the likes of us, are you?" said he scornfully. "You C.I.D. lot are all the same, forever making a song and dance about something when you think it's beneath you."

"What's the matter, Bland? They turn your application down?"

The man grew red in the face until I thought he must be on the verge of apoplexy. "No one said you had to come. A wire would've sufficed."

"I could hardly make an identification without seeing the man in question, or hadn't that occurred to you?"

"You'll have to take that up with your 'friends' here." He gestured with his thumb in our direction. "Mr Holmes was the one making a fuss and insisting that you were sent for. We were duty-bound to verify his story. It wouldn't be the first time we've had some tuppenny ha'penny villain try to give us a false identity. Why, if we believed everyone who told us he was 'Mr Sherlock Holmes', we'd never make a decent arrest."

"I've always wondered why the Stoke Newington lot put so few up before the beak." Leaving Bland silently fuming, Lestrade turned his attention to us. "Well, gentlemen, I can't see any good reason for your still being here. Unless there's anything you'd like to tell us?"

He gazed at me expectantly. I shook my head, deciding that the least said about the business, the better for all of us. He fared somewhat worse with Holmes, whose humour, questionable at the best of times, was on this occasion tantamount to sheer provocation.

"I believe the weather promises fair for the rest of the week," he offered. "Although rain is expected by Saturday."

Lestrade sighed. "I meant by way of information, Mr Holmes."

"Ah, that. I would say that if the members of N Division seek the whereabouts of Mr Harper, they could do worse than to pay a visit to the mortuary. He will not return to his lodgings."

Bland rose up on his toes and regarded Holmes down the length of a nose that bore the unmistakeable signs of having been broken several times in the past. "And how do you know that?"

"Because I saw him there only yesterday, although at the time I did not know his name."

Lestrade's expression fell. "You mean—"

"The gentleman who was killed by the falling rubble was Mr Swithin Harper. Beyond the fact of his identity and that he had a fiancée named Miss Sally Crabtree, who frequents The White Swan in Smithfield, I know nothing about the man."

"Hang on a minute," said Bland, snapping his fingers at his sergeant. "Crabtree – that's not the name we've got."

"No, sir," said Franklin, consulting his notebook. "Mr Harper was reported missing last night by old Widow Steggles, who claimed the said Mr Harper was her fiancé."

"Bloomin' heck," said Bland with a sigh of deep discontent, "sounds like our Mr Harper was one of those gadabouts with a woman in every port. Remember the last one, Sergeant?"

"The one with twelve women all professing to be the fellow's intended? I'm not likely to forget my first case, sir. They made a hell of mess of the station after they'd all turned up together and had a set-to in the lobby. Constable Donne's helmet still has a dent in it."

"And this Mr Harper is dead, you say?" Bland asked, looking to Holmes for confirmation.

"I'm afraid so."

"That's all we need. Widow Steggles says this Mr Harper spun her some tale the day before last about needing £50 to buy a marriage licence. When he didn't turn up at her house last night, she thought he'd been attacked and robbed."

"Hopped off with her money, more like," grunted Franklin. "We've been waiting at his lodging house for him to return to see what he had to say for himself."

"This body you've got," said Bland, "I don't suppose he had any money on him?"

"He had only a few pennies to his name," said Lestrade.

"And I expect your lot divvied those up between you." Bland grunted with disdain. "It weren't at his room, and judging from the state of the place, it didn't look like he'd spent it on himself. Cherchez la female, Sergeant. There's nothing like women for keeping a man poor."

Having been forced to remain in the room in question for some length of time, I felt I could recall its every aspect with some certainty. From the sagging mattress and brown blanket on the bed; the red dressing gown slung over the headboard; the tan leather slippers tossed to one side of the fireplace; the grate of which had yet to be swept out; a writing desk under the window with a quantity of blotting paper, much stained; a half bottle of ink and a single pen with a grey handle, now bearing the smudges of black from repeated use, I too should have said that the room's occupant lived a fairly frugal existence had I not known better.

"Well, there it is," said Bland, showing the first sign of satisfaction in his half-hearted smile that I seen thus far. "Another mystery cleared up. Sergeant Franklin, you'd better go round and tell the old lady that her money has gone west, along with her fiancé. Then you can ferret out this Crabtree type and see if she knows what Harper was spending his money on, although I'd lay good odds on it being wine, women and song. As for you two," said he, looking at us with burning dislike, "I suggest in future when you find an unlocked door, you don't go nosing about. It can only lead to trouble. Good day, _sirs_."

With his sound advice ringing in our ears, we left the draughty police station and breathed the fresher air of a gusting autumnal afternoon. Lestrade joined us and, as I had anticipated, he had more than a few choice words for my companion.

"Now what's all this about, Mr Holmes?" he wanted to know. "First you tell me that fellow was your brother, now I hear he's some cove called Harper. Am I to understand that you wilfully misidentified that body last night?"

"I erred," said Holmes. "The likeness was quite remarkable and in the circumstances it was an easy mistake to make."

Lestrade stared at him with round eyes. "You 'erred', Mr Holmes? I did hear you right?"

Holmes nodded.

"That's what I thought you said." He cast a disconcerted look in my direction. "Only with the day I've been having, I wasn't sure I wasn't hearing things. So your brother isn't dead?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Neither. I do not know."

Lestrade heaved a sigh. "I take it that he's missing then?"

"Possibly."

"You aren't sure?"

"He isn't where I would expect him to be, let us say that."

"Whereabouts unknown, you mean."

"Obviously, Inspector. If I could lay hands on him, I should not be trying to trace his movements about town yesterday."

"Which is how you knew about Mr Harper."

"Watson had the good fortune to observe Mr Harper in a somewhat compromising situation. From there we traced his fiancée and from her to his lodgings."

Lestrade grinned. "Compromising, eh? And how did you happen to be a witness to this 'compromising situation', Doctor? In a professional capacity, was it?"

"No, I was passing."

"That's what they all say."

"In my case, it happens to be true," I protested with some vehemence.

"Watson is beyond reproach," said Holmes, "and an innocent party in this unsavoury affair. I am very much obliged for his presence today, seeing how he is in mourning for the imminent loss of his freedom."

It took Lestrade a moment to take his meaning. "You're getting married, Doctor? Well, I never. When's the happy event?"

"Thursday," said I.

"Unlucky day that," said he, sucking in his breath between his teeth. "'_Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all'_ – that's how the old saying goes. Whatever made you pick a Thursday?"

"We had no choice in the matter. It was the only day available."

A sly look came to Lestrade's eye, which, when allied with his sudden knowing grin, made me wonder what strange meaning he had derived from my remark.

"A rush up the aisle, is it?" said he. "No, Doctor, no need to explain. There's many a slip twixt cup and lip, as they say. Still, you're doing the right thing and that's all we need to know about it."

I have heard how misunderstandings may arise from the simplest of mistakes. Needless to say, I was appalled by the direction of our conversation and not at all amused by the fact that Holmes was struggling to contain his humour.

"No, no," I said hurriedly. "It isn't like at all!"

"I can verify that this is an engagement of some long standing," said Holmes, finally sobering. "Thus far, it has been twice postponed, first by an act of God, and latterly by the demise of the parson. Thursday we hope to see a satisfactory conclusion of the affair."

Lestrade's expression became pained. "If you don't mind me saying, Doctor, there's some say that the death of the parson before a wedding doesn't bode well. It's meant to be bad luck, isn't it?"

"It certainly was for the parson," said Holmes under his breath. "Now, Lestrade, about my brother."

"I suppose you want me to see if he's turned up through the official channels?" With a grudging sigh, he took out his notebook and licked the stubby, blunted end of his pencil. "What's he look like?"

"Very much like the late Mr Harper."

"I see. A tall, fat… that is to say, a large, distinguished gentleman in his early forties. Answers to the name of Mr Mycroft Holmes."

"He isn't a stray cat, Inspector."

"We use much the same methods in locating both. Oh, there is one thing. Why did this Mr Harper, who bears a striking resemblance to a certain member of your family, have your brother's watch about his person?"

Holmes considered. "Coincidence."

"I see." Lestrade stowed his notebook back in his pocket and his expression took on that look of weary resignation of a man who knows he is being lied to, but has not the means at his disposal to do much about it. "In that case, I'll do what I can, but I'm not promising anything. Good luck for Thursday, Dr Watson. Sounds like you'll need it."

"I sincerely hope," I said as I watched his back retreat down the street, "that he believed us. I should hate for people to get the wrong impression."

"If they do, you will have no one to blame but yourself," said Holmes curtly. "If you will insist on passing yourself off as a fellow with experience of women from many continents, then what are people to think?"

"If you _are_ going to quote me, Holmes, at least extend to me that same courtesy as I afford you and get it right. I never said 'many continents'; I said three. And certainly not in the sense you mean."

"Then why say it? Either because you consider it an admirable quality in a young man or it was an idle boast intended to impress and intimidate, in which case I can assure you it was quite wasted on me."

"I told only you _and_ in confidence, because…"

"Yes?" Holmes prompted at my hesitation.

"Because I didn't expect it to become common knowledge."

Holmes sniffed disinterestedly. "As was said of the lady, Watson, methinks you doth protest too much. However, let it pass. Since I have wasted a good portion of your day in chasing our elusive Mr Harper, it is time I loosed you to deal with the pressing problem of dry rot and rising damp."

Admittedly he was right, although I was disappointed that I was being dismissed when the case was far from resolved. "What will you do?"

"Mr Harper can tell us no more. Whether Scotland Yard can turn up some trace of my brother or not, I must trust to my own resources."

"Holmes."

As he turned to go, I caught at his sleeve. The material was stiffening, still a little damp in places and accompanied by that peculiar smell of drying blood, glimpses of which were visible on his cuff.

"Your injuries need attention," I reminded him.

That the deadening effects of the drug were starting to wear off was evident in the slow manner of his movements as he returned his arm carefully to his side. "Later, Watson. It will keep."

"Your would-be assassin is still out there. You will take care?"

"I shall keep alert, have no fear."

"I should much prefer to come with you."

"And run the risk of your being transfixed by a bullet meant for me? I would say that is an excellent reason for going our separate ways."

"If you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant—"

"My dear fellow, of course not," said he, laying his hand consolingly on my shoulder. "Let us not talk of what _may_ happen. Let us instead treat this as a preparation for those times when our paths needs must divert. I shall see you later. Until then, Watson, remember, when dealing with workmen, never to show fear or ignorance. Evidence of either is taken as a sign of weakness, and before you know it, the price has doubled and the length of the undertaking is soon counted in weeks rather than days. Be firm of purpose, and tell them you want the house ready for your return. 221B, although commodious, is hardly the place for newly-weds."

It was with the deepest of misgivings that I watched him go and soon he lost to my sight, swallowed up in an ever-writhing sea of scolding ladies, unwieldy perambulators and squabbling children. As I hailed a cab to take me to Paddington and my ailing marital home, I could only hope that our parting would not prove permanent and that Thursday would not find me at church for a funeral rather than a wedding.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Nine!**_

* * *

[1] The Superintendant of N or Islington Division in 1888 was a certain W.J. Sherlock. An incredible coincidence, but true!


	9. Chapter Nine

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Nine: Dr Watson's Visitor**

I did not follow Holmes's advice, sage though it was.

Despite my best efforts, my display of ignorance was appalling, and no sooner had the builder begun to talk of damp courses and damaged bricks than I fear I was already at a loss. As a consequence, I listened with dismay as the estimate for the repairs to the house grew steadily higher.

I had no choice but to agree to the man's terms; this close to the wedding, finding someone else who would get the work done in time for us to move in would prove difficult, if not nigh on impossible. Eking out a meagre existence in hotels and boarding houses as newly-weds was not a satisfactory prospect, and as Holmes had said, my soon to be former rooms at Baker Street were not adequate to contain the three of us.

I was mindful too that I had in my pocket the cheque Holmes had given to me for the repayment of my late brother's debt. By the time I had finished my discussion with the builder, the bank had put up its shutters and closed for the day. There would be time tomorrow, I told myself, God willing. Part of me wished to delay the inevitable, but it would have to be done, despite my thinking of much better uses for such a sum. It was galling to think that I was to be forced to hand it over for such a profitless reason. In death, as in life, however, Henry haunted me still with his profligate ways.

Living life to the full, as had been his oft-quoted motto, was all very well when you had someone to pick up the pieces. That lot had fallen on my shoulders. In recent years, I had seen him only when he needed money, which was often, always with excuses and always with promises to change his ways. Each time was the last time, he would promise. He never did.

We played this game until the day I could tolerate his lies no longer. It was to the first and only time I would ever refuse him. I was not sure who was the most surprised by my bold stance. Henry, displaying his usual brand of marked selfishness, reacted with bitterness and told me that I would regret it, and for once in his life, he did not lie.

The next I heard of him, he was dead, having been taken into a workhouse infirmary after found wandering the streets in a fevered delirium. He had died amongst strangers, railing against the cruel brother who had turned his back on him. I could find no fault with his accusations. I had failed him – just the once, but it had been enough. Given my time over, I would give him that accursed money ten times over and listen to his appalling falsehoods with a glad heart.

Would it have saved him? I shall never know.

That cankerous element of doubt, however, made me all the more sympathetic to Holmes's situation. The news of my brother's death had been something of a guilty relief, ending as it did years of uncertainty. He would often go missing, for months if need be, to escape his creditors and would eventually turn up in his own time, with his old excuses and tales of how he had made his fortune with one turn of a card. He had wandered in and out of my life like a hungry locust, his habitual reappearances always heralding the depletion of my own finances. As irksome as this was, knowing he was at large was preferable to wondering whether his sins had finally caught up with him and he had fallen into the hands of those who wanted to extract the debt from his hide.

If I had felt any satisfaction at finally being able to refuse Henry's continual demands, it was a small victory that did not last long. In the days that followed, I was increasingly tortured with concerns for my thoughtless brother's well-being. When a week later, I was informed that he was dead, I fear I made a rather poor impression on the workhouse doctors when I expressed relief at hearing he had been carried off by illness. Had he met his fate at the hands of ruffians, I could have never forgiven myself.

I understood, therefore, when I arrived back at our rooms to find that Holmes had not returned. His absence, however, did not stop me worrying about his safety. While he might have considered two attempts on his life as merely adding an element of interest to his investigation, I took a rather more serious view of the matter. I did not doubt that he was pursuing all possible avenues in an effort to discover his brother's fate, but I wished now that I had insisted on accompanying him. By the time the clock chimed a quarter past seven and there was still no word, I was near to convincing myself that some terrible fate had befallen him.

I was considering taking my concerns to Scotland Yard when there was a knock at the door. My heart soared. Leaning over the banisters, to my dismay I saw Mrs Hudson admit not my absent friend, but another man. I did not recognise him, although from his ingratiating manner and his confidence in stepping into the hall before Mrs Hudson could interrogate him, I gathered he had been here before.

"Are you taking visitors, Dr Watson?" Mrs Hudson called up to me.

"Who is it?"

The man stepped forward into the light. He held a battered brown billycock, a rather shabby and overlarge black overcoat was draped about his meagre frame, and his greasy, greying locks were so closely plastered to his head that they appeared to have been applied to his scalp with a paintbrush.

"I'm Mr Turpin, sir," said he, slurring his consonants in the manner of those who dwelt within the sound of the Bow Bells. "Might I 'ave a word with Mr 'Olmes?"

"He isn't at home. May I be of assistance?"

This appeared to be the invitation for which he was waiting. He sprang up the stairs like a cat up a tree and, before I could stop him, he had scurried past me and into the sitting room. By the time I caught up with him, he was already making himself at home on the sofa.

"Well, Mr Turpin," said I, offering him a drink, which he eagerly accepted and downed in one gulp, "I gather you have something you wish to tell Mr Holmes? Are you acquainted?"

"Oh, yes, he knows me all right." He glanced over his shoulder in the manner of a wary dog. Satisfied that we were alone, he relaxed a little. "I'm in the same line of work as Mr 'Olmes, private inquiries for parties what have a grievance, if you get my drift."

He held out his glass in the hope of a refill. I obliged.

"I don't say as I'm in the same league as Mr 'Olmes, but I makes a living. Well, we all have to, and Mr 'Olmes, he's been good enough to drop me the wink from time to time and send a few my way, so I f'ort I might return the favour. Missing persons is my speciality, you see, and word is that Mr 'Olmes is looking for someone, a Mr Swithin 'Arper?"

I gathered this was what Holmes had meant when he had said he would trust to his own resources. "Do you have any information concerning the gentleman in question?"

He gave me a dubious look. "I don't rightly know I should tell you, sir. I don't know you."

"I am Mr Holmes's friend and colleague. My name is Dr Watson."

The man's eyes brightened. "A doctor, are you? Well, I s'ppose it's all right, although by rights I should be giving this to him, seeing as how it touches on the personal. That's my watchword, see. I'm known for keeping a confidence. I'm proud to be called Honest."

"Most commendable."

"Honest Dick Turpin, that's me," he said with some pride. "Straight as the day is long."

He ferreted inside his coat and drew out a collection of papers.

"The thing is I've been helping Mrs Carter sort out her husband's stuff," he explained. "He had his own agency and a rented office on Cable Street. Anyhow, he died a month back, and his missus asked me to have a butcher's at his cases, see if he was owed any money, that sort o'thing."

"Sorry," I interrupted. "You've lost me. He was a butcher as well?"

"No, no, Doctor," he said. "I had a butcher's, you know, a butcher's hook, a look?"

I nodded. "So you looked through his papers. And?"

He glanced down at the sheaf he held. "I wouldn't have f'ort nuthin of it, but it was the name that struck. How many folk do you know called Swithin these days? I told the trouble and strife it might be a good 'un for our next nipper. De'stinguished, like. And when I heard Mr 'Olmes he was looking for the fella, well, I f'ort these might be of some help to him." He paused, seemingly reluctant to relinquish his prize. "Then there's the other name."

"What other name?"

"It's the nature of the case, you see," he went on. "A question of parentage, you might say. Anyhow, Mournful—"

"Excuse me, who?"

"Mournful Morris Carter, the bloke what died. We's always called him that on account of his having the most miserable boat race of any man in London. Always had a moan and a groan did old Mournful," said he, wistfully. "Well, as I was saying, Mournful, he weren't a brilliant detective what like Mr 'Olmes is, but he had his moments. Seems he found out who this Mr 'Arper's father might have been. From what I can make out, money changed hands and the mother was persuaded to move away with her chavy and have nuthin' to do with the gent ever again."

I had a strange feeling that I was going to know the family concerned.

"I didn't know the old cove, and it's not like it's an uncommon surname, but what with Mr 'Olmes asking about this Swithin bloke…" Mr Turpin paused, his features twisted into a frown that spoke of his discomfiture on the subject. "Well, it makes you wonder."

With that, the sheaf of papers was deposited into my lap. The uppermost was a copy of a legal document, a contract whereby a Mrs Harper was paid the princely sum of £500 on the understanding that she was to remove herself from the immediate locale and never to return. The year was 1846, and the other party, who had signed with a flamboyant if elderly hand, which was barely legible, appeared to be someone named Sir Ranulf Holmes, Bart.

Apart from the similarity in surnames, the name meant nothing to me. Beyond his brother and vague talk of country squires and a grandmother who had been a sister of the artist, Vernet, Holmes had told me very little of his family. Seeing this contract, however, I had to wonder again about the marked resemblance between Harper and Mycroft Holmes.

On the other hand, there was nothing to say that Holmes had any connection with this Sir Ranulf nor did the contract state any reason why Mrs Harper should have been paid in this way. It occurred to me that if the family had come to some arrangement of this nature with this woman, then it would be most unlikely that they would commit the deed to paper. I told myself it was too improbable to be true. All the same, I could not shake the unsettling feeling that I was prying into matters that did not concern me.

"This is a copy," I said. "What happened to the original?"

"I reckon Mournful passed it to Mr 'Arper."

"Mr Harper was his client?"

"No. The papers were sent to Mr Harper, but Mournful was working for someone else."

My heart skipped a beat. "Who?"

"I don't rightly know, Doctor. Whoever it was wanted to be h'anonymouse. All it says in Mournful's records is that the papers were delivered to Mr 'Arper at the client's request."

"Did the client pay?"

"It don't say, but there's not much I can do about it in any case, is there, if I don't know who he was?"

"Quite so. Tell me, Mr Turpin, where would he have got a document like this?"

He grinned. "I reckon he would've nicked it, sir. Perhaps from old mother 'Arper."

"That I doubt. Her son would have found it before now."

"From the lawyer who handled it then. He weren't past a bit o'breaking an' entering if the fancy took him – and he was paid enough."

"How would he have known where to look? You do see my point, Mr Turpin. There is nothing to say that this is not a forgery."

"Looks real enough to me, all that legal talk about clauses and whereases and hithertos."

"Easy enough to create a credible fake, Mr Turpin. The firm of solicitors who handled the case should be able to verify its authenticity, if it is genuine."

The man shrugged. "It's no odds to me, Doctor, either way. A man's private affairs are his own concern, that's my view. I've done what I had to and that's the end of my interest. And Mournful has taken the secret to his grave, so he's not going to be telling no one, is he?"

I was trying to decipher the faded name of the firm of solicitors when the significance of what he had said struck me. "When did you say Mr Carter died?"

"A month ago. Nasty business it were."

I had a rare experience of revelation as the disparate pieces of the puzzle began to fall into a semblance of sense. The feeling of exultation was overwhelming. I understood why Archimedes had leapt from his bath shouting 'Eureka!' I will not say that my moment would ever go down in the history of great discoveries, but for me it was as close to a feeling of fevered exhilaration as I was ever likely to come.

As I saw it, the two players in this drama were fatally connected. A month ago, Carter had discovered something relating to Harper's family and died soon after passing that information along. At the same time, Harper had been lured to London – Holmes's conclusions about his clothes not being more than a month old assured me that my assumption was correct – and, no doubt on the basis of this spurious contract, had been persuaded that he could make good his grievance against a family who had disowned him. Yesterday, he had masqueraded as Mycroft Holmes, caused havoc in the government, and had then met with a fatal accident.

I will allow that coincidences do occur, but to believe so in this case was stretching credibility too far.

What was clear was that this business was deeper than I had ever imagined. It had been plotted with care and subtle handling, the players used and deposed of when no longer required. If the criminals followed their pattern, it was likely that Holmes's initial conjecture about his brother being dead was correct. In light of this, my fears for his safety resurfaced with a vengeance.

As pleased as I felt with myself, I recognised my limitations. It was all very well to have come this far, but it did not answer the problem of what had happened to Holmes. And I still did not know the identity of the person who had masterminded the scheme. Find him, and perhaps I would find my missing friend, if he was still alive.

"How did Mr Carter die?" I asked.

"He was run over at a level-crossing."

"An accident?"

"Well, I don't s'ppose the train wanted to hit him."

"No, I meant were there any unusual circumstances?"

Mr Turpin frowned in an effort of remembrance. "Only that he were out in the middle o'nowhere late at night. Oh, and his office was ransacked the day after. Some people have got no respect."

"What did they take?"

"Couldn't say, Doctor. They made hell of a mess of the place. Poured ink all over the files and the rest ended up on the fire."

"But not this one?"

"No, he had that one at his home."

I leafed through the pages and found what I was looking for: Mr Carter's record of the case. As I had surmised, a few days after Carter had handed over his findings, he was dead. Was it possible that he had been going to collect his money when he met with his alleged accident?

"Where did he die?"

"I don't know that, sir," said Mr Turpin. "Out in the sticks, somewhere."

"He had nothing on him to indicate what his purpose might have been?"

"The peelers might have found something, but if so they didn't tell his missus. All they said when they brought him back was that he was drunk at the time, must have got off at the wrong stop and wandered about in the dark till he was run down."

There was little else he could add, and, with our interview at an end, it was all I could to contain my impatience as I thanked Mr Turpin for his time and showed him the door. He seemed inclined to linger, glancing longingly at the decanter and making a few none-too-subtle hints about it being a 'devilishly cold night'. Finally he condescended to leave and I was alone, with the beginnings of a plan and an idea how to pursue it.

Perhaps I flattered myself in overestimating its importance; supposing that there was any connection between the location of Mr Carter's death and proximity of his alleged murderer was what even the best bookmaker would describe as a long-shot. The best of us make mistakes, however, and I had to hope his killer, if killed Carter was, had been arrogant enough to assume that no link would ever be made between then.

It was as forlorn hope. It was also the only lead I had. To find Holmes, even that was worth pursuing. With that in mind, I gathered up my hat and coat, and set out for Scotland Yard.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Ten!**_


	10. Chapter Ten

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Ten: Scotland Yard's Newest Wonder**

"So, who's gone missing this time? Your niece? Your grandfather? Your great-aunt Gertie in her best straw hat?"

I wished I could have shared Lestrade's light-hearted view of the situation. It had taken me the best part of three-quarters of an hour to make my way from Baker Street to Whitehall in conditions that could best be described as congested, only to have to abandon my cab when we drew to a standstill in the great heaving throng of Regent Street and make the rest of my journey on foot. I was tired, vexed and deeply concerned that I had had still no word from my missing companion.

"Actually, Inspector, Holmes seems to have disappeared."

"Has he, Doctor? Well, I shouldn't worry too much about it. I expect he'll turn up sooner or later."

Sooner, I hoped, rather than later, and of his own free will, not carried feet-first into the local mortuary. These concerns I did not confide to Lestrade, however, for his mood that evening was less than amiable and I had the distinct impression that he was still brooding over Holmes having misled him about the identity of the Holborn accident victim. I did not begrudge him his nursing of his wounded pride, although the timing could not have been worse.

We were sat in what was currently passing as his office, a cramped affair dominated by a desk so large that it seemed to me he would have to crawl through the gap in the middle to get to the door, and stacked from floor to ceiling with paperwork in so great a volume that they had overtaken the room and spilled out into the corridor beyond. Our cases of late had not necessitated our visiting Scotland Yard since the bombing of five years before, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that the large hole created by the explosion in the wall of their headquarters had been patched and was supported by wooden props, much to the dismay of the local publican, who had been making a roaring trade in showing visitors the damage for a threepence a head.

The problem of space remained, however, and various members of the Criminal Investigation Division, who had been obliged to decamp to nearby offices, had taken up permanent residence in what were initially intended to be temporary quarters. Lestrade had found himself shuffled away with several others to an upstairs room of the Public Carriage Office, and I gathered that relations were not easy. So many souls in so confined an area were causing tensions to run high, a fact I discovered when my appearance in the entrance lobby that evening had nearly caused a coming to blows over who was to take my inquiry.

After hot words and a few flushed faces, I was taken to the upper levels. I had to squeeze past the towering heights of stacked paper mountains, each looking precarious enough to fall and engulf an unwary passer-by if he dared so much as to sneeze and disturb them. My gamble that Lestrade's unhappy domestic situation would have made him in no great hurry to return home had paid off, and I had found him at work, or at least going through the motions, with a sandwich in one hand, a cup of tea in the other and the evening newspaper spread out on the desk before him.

I cannot say he was altogether pleased to see me, for my reception was cool and his manner wary, as if he already suspected the reason for my visit. After skipping over the customary courtesies and several oblique references to our encounter earlier that day, I decided to lay my cards on the table and ask him directly what he knew about the death of Morris Carter.

He pursed his lips. "I'm not so sure about that, Doctor. What's your interest in old Mournful, anyhow?"

"A personal one," I said, deciding that it was wiser not to divulge what I had learnt in the past few hours. Trying to explain the convoluted nature of the business would have taken more time than I could spare and would not, I imagined, be beneficial to my cause.

Lestrade was not so easily deceived. "It wouldn't have anything to do with Mr Holmes's missing brother, would it?"

"I can honestly say that I don't know, Inspector."

"He hasn't sent you?"

"No, I haven't seen him for hours."

A look of dissatisfaction settled on the Inspector's features. "You wouldn't be thinking of handling a case on your own, would you, Dr Watson? You could get yourself in a lot of trouble."

"I appreciate that, Inspector. However, I only wish to know what happened to Mr Carter."

"Do you?" He still looked unhappy about the prospect of telling me what he knew. "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt. The man's dead, after all. What you need is our Dawkins."

"What's that?"

"Constable Dawkins, current genius-in-residence," said he with a wry smile. "The Chief Constable said that if he had ten men like Dawkins he could clean this city up in a year. Until he finds them, however, he's stuck with us, doing the best we can. No one ever took up policing for the thanks you get."

He had risen to his feet, and, as I had suspected, was fairly trapped between the confines of desk and wall. He vacillated for a moment, decided against the indignity of having to crawl out on his hands and knees to the door, and instead hollered out at the top of his voice. The bleary-eyed constable who appeared was duly sent away in search of the inscrutable Dawkins. Lestrade re-seated himself and stifled a sigh.

"Any news concerning Mycroft Holmes?" I asked while we waited.

He grunted. "I've started making inquiries. There's a lot of men match his description, mind. Something will turn up."

"Mr Micawber," I said, smiling.

Lestrade gave me a blank look. "Someone I should know about?"

"No, it's of no importance."

"Maybe you should let me be the judge of that." He folded his arms and regarded me gravely. "I do have other cases on hand, you know, Dr Watson. I was in the middle of a forgery case with no end of suspects when you and Mr Holmes had me trek over to Islington this afternoon. It's all very well the pair of you gadding about dabbling in crime as it were, but it us professionals who have to come along and clear up your mess. I had to re-file my report this afternoon about that dead man, and the Chief Constable was none too happy about it, I can tell you. He made noises about us having a case against Mr Holmes for wasting police time."

"But in the circumstances, Inspector—"

"That's what I told him. He said he'd let it pass this time, but he's not a man who's got much patience."

"Even though Holmes has been of help to the police in the past?"

Lestrade sat up abruptly and leaned his elbows on the desk. "In an _unofficial_ capacity," he said with emphasis.

From this remark, I gathered that, as in print, the lion's share of the credit was going to the detectives who made the arrests, not the individual who solved the cases. I had remonstrated with Holmes in the past about this lack of recognition for the pains he took on behalf of the official force and, whilst it appeared not to greatly trouble him, I had my doubts as to whether this stance he had adopted was to his advantage. Given the choice between the professional pride of certain police inspectors and a spell in prison, I knew which I would prefer.

Further discussion of the subject was prevented by a tap on the door and the appearance of the Yard's newest wonder. Dawkins was a slight young man, who wore full whiskers and a moustache in the mistaken belief that it would make him appear older than his tender years. So sparse was it, however, that it seemed more untidy stubble than luxuriant growth. Whatever it was about him that had won the Chief Constable's approval, it was not likely to be his considered opinions on the proper wearing of facial hair.

"Ah, Dawkins." Lestrade addressed the newcomer in almost predatory fashion. Had he been a dog, his hackles would have been up and pointing in Dawkin's direction. "Well, come in, boy," he said, gruffly. "Don't stand there like a tradesman waiting for his Christmas box."

Dawkins duly entered, sidestepping several boxes and managing to manoeuvre his frame into a position where he was able to close the door.

"This gentleman here is Dr Watson," said Lestrade, nodding in my direction.

"Currently residing at 221B Baker Street?" said the young man.

"Well, yes," I said, somewhat taken aback.

"Former army surgeon, attached first to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, then to the Berkshires, saw action at—"

"Yes, thank you, Dawkins," said Lestrade, interrupting his flow. "It's not Dr Watson we're interested in." He cast a weary glance in my direction. "That's his talent, see. You've got a limitless capacity for storing all sorts of nonsense in that head of yours, haven't you, Dawkins? Fascinated by crimes and criminals, he is. Ask him who did what when how why and to whom, and he could tell you like a shot."

"Incredible," said I. "How is it you know about me?"

"I make it my business to know about everyone who comes into contact with the Met in any capacity, sir," said he deferentially. "I've been following Mr Holmes's career in particular with interest, from his first involvement with the force in the January of 1878 during the investigation of a series of suspicious deaths at a music hall in Hoxton—"

"That's quite enough," Lestrade said. "If you could turn that memory of yours to something rather closer in time, perhaps you wouldn't mind enlightening us about the details of the investigation into the death of Morris Carter."

Dawkins paused and glanced dubiously at me. "In front of a civilian, Inspector?"

"He isn't a civilian, constable. He's a doctor. They're like priests. Whatever you tell them in confidence stays that way. Isn't that right?"

He looked to me for confirmation. The analogy was not quite exact, and I was sure it did not apply to police business, but I nodded anyway.

"Well, lad, get on with it. What are you waiting for?"

Dawkins cleared his throat. "Morris Carter, known as Mournful, called himself a private detective. Born 1833 in Bromley, second son of an ironmonger and a seamstress. First came to the attention of the Bromley force in 1845 for petty larceny. Case not proven. Then in 1846, he was brought up before the bench on a charge of stealing washing—"

"Skip forward a bit, constable," said Lestrade wearily. "We'll be here all night otherwise. Tell us how he died."

"That was a month ago."

"Yes, yes, we know that."

"Wouldn't it be easier to look up the file, Inspector?"

Lestrade gestured to the heaped papers around his office. "If you think you can find it in amongst this lot, Dawkins, be my guest. If not, tell us what you can remember. Now, what about Carter?"

"Killed by the 11.38 Hastings train on the Chislehurst level crossing. The night was clear, the weather fair. The body smelled strongly of alcohol and the coroner concluded that Mr Carter had wandered onto the rails in a state of drunkenness. No suspicious circumstances were reported. Death was recorded as misadventure whilst under the influence."

"What did he have on his person?" I asked.

"Four shillings, a comb with missing teeth, a battered copy of _Memoirs of a Harem Girl_ and a half bag of mint humbugs, 12 in total I think it was."

"No ticket?"

"There was no mention of it in the official report."

I caught Lestrade watching me closely. "I wouldn't read too much into that, if I were you, Doctor," said he. "Have you ever seen anyone hit by a train? Messy business. Easy enough to overlook a train ticket under those circumstances."

"Was any explanation offered as to what Mr Carter was doing there so late at night?"

"The coroner was of the opinion that he had alighted at the wrong stop. Chislehurst is just down the road from where he was brought up as a nipper in Bromley, so perhaps he was feeling homesick."

"He had no case which would have taken him there?"

"R Division looked into that, sir," Dawkins answered, "but they found nothing current."

"And what of anyone in the local area? Were they questioned about—"

"Thank you, Dawkins, that'll be all," Lestrade interjected.

"But, sir—"

"I _said_, that'll be all. Off you go."

The obliging youth gave a slight inclination of his head. "Glad to be of assistance, Inspector. A pleasure to have met you, Dr Watson. If you see Mr Holmes, sir, would you tell him that I'm a great admirer of his methods? I'd consider it an honour to be able to work with him one day."

"Certainly, I shall tell him."

"Haven't you got nothing better to do than stand here bending this gentleman's ear, constable?" Lestrade cut in irritably.

"I've got half an hour break, Inspector."

"Well, you're not going to rise very high in the Met if you fill your time yapping with your friends. Go on, hook it."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Oh, and, Dawkins, since you're at a loss for things to do, you can make me another cup of tea. Strong and hot, and bring up some of that cake that old girl left with the sergeant on account of our finding her missing dog."

Dawkins went on his way, leaving Lestrade grinning at the constable's chagrin like a cat who managed to commandeer all the cream for himself.

"You have to keep these youngsters in their place," he confided. "It's all very well being cocky in here, but all it'll get you out on the streets is a punch in the breadbasket for your trouble. Talking of which…" He sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What's your real interest in this Carter fellow, Doctor?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Those questions, they were quite specific, the sort I'd expect Mr Holmes to ask."

"As I said, Inspector, it's a personal inquiry. On behalf of a friend."

Lestrade's keen eyes held a hard gleam of suspicion. "And you're sure that friend isn't Mr Holmes?"

Despite the coolness of the evening, I was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot under the collar. "No, it isn't."

"Frankly, I'd be a lot happier knowing it was. Mark my word, this was an accident, nothing more. Stay well clear of it. Folk who go looking for trouble often find it, that's been my experience, especially…" He paused and his features softened into a smile. "When they're not so sure of the ropes."

"I know how to handle myself. Not that I expect to have to so," I added hastily.

"You'll be going home now, will you?"

"Directly. In the meantime, you'll let us know if you hear anything about Mycroft Holmes?"

"You may count on it. Well, good evening, Dr Watson. Mind how you go."

I took my leave, successfully negotiated the paper-strewn obstacle course and headed out into the night, hailing the first cab I saw and directing him to take me to Waterloo in time to catch the 9.10 to Hastings via Chislehurst. I had no qualms about breaking my word to Lestrade; I would make peace with my conscience when I knew Holmes was safe and this diabolical mystery was at an end.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Eleven!**_


	11. Chapter Eleven

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Eleven: The Chislehurst Discovery**

A little over half an hour later, I alighted at the small station of Chislehurst St Mary, the halt nearest to the scene of Morris Carter's accident. Station was perhaps too grand a word for it, consisting as it did of two weed-ridden platforms, a single ticket office and an elderly cobweb-draped stationmaster who was dozing quietly before a brazier. I left him to his slumbers and made my way out to the main road.

The night was clear, crisp and moonlit, with a scattering of stars playing a game of hide-and-seek with the clouds. On a night such as this, Carter had met his death half a mile away, where the main London Road intersected the railway lines. Away towards the direction of the town of Chislehurst, I saw the train speeding on, cutting through the darkened countryside with fiery breath and piercing whistle as it approached the level crossing. As sparks cascaded from the tracks to mark the train's thundering passage on across the road, I tried to suppress a shudder. Morris Carter, drunk, stunned or already dying when left in the train's path, had not stood a chance.

As the noise of the train became a distant rumble, I began to have my first doubts as to the wisdom of this enterprise. Having seen the place for myself, it was entirely likely that an accident such as the police had envisaged could have taken place. As clouds scudded across the moon, the night began to approach some Stygian absolute. The road, or rather lane, I was following was rough and unsurfaced with a ditch running either side to trap the unwary. After the third time my foot had descended into a foul-smelling morass, I resolved to keep to the middle of the road and probe ahead with my cane.

By this method, I managed to avoid several potholes, thus saving myself from a twisted ankle, and skirting the soft deposits left by a recent herd of cattle. Clearly this was not the most deserted corner of the country, although it was starting to feel that way. Somewhere shrouded by the night was a farmhouse, but I was at a loss to say in which direction it might lie.

I was disheartened to say the least. I had had a fine theory about Carter coming here to collect his pay for his investigations into Swithin Harper's natural father only to find that there was nowhere for him to have gone. I was expecting a fine mansion, presided over by some brooding criminal mastermind, wallowing in luxury whilst playing havoc with the country's economy. At least it always seems that way in books; I had to allow that Holmes perhaps had a valid point when he fell to criticising what he saw as my more romantic tendencies.

The truth was that there was no earthly reason for Carter to have come here – except perhaps his own ineptitude, a charge I could equally apply to myself for having indulged in fanciful notions. Wet boots and the lingering smells of the countryside that seemed to be dogging my every footstep had disillusioned me of that. All I could think now was to find my way to the nearest station and head for home.

I had two options: to push on to distant Chislehurst or to return to the station at which I had alighted. I decided on the latter option and so struggled back through mire and malodorous mud until I found the little halt once again. To my horror, all the lights were out. Evidently, the stationmaster had roused himself from his stupor and gone home.

Now I was faced with an even greater dilemma. I was not familiar enough with this part of the world to consider heading out in any particular direction. There was talk of caves in this area and the thought of pitching headlong into a chasm had little appeal. The alternative was to spend the night on the platform in the forlorn hope that a train might stop. Failing that, I would have to make myself comfortable on the bench and get what sleep I could.

It was not a prospect I particularly relished. Those who say that camping out in the open air is an enjoyable activity usually do so in the comfort of a bar with a glass in their hand and an air of authority that makes them sound as though they are experts on the subject. Those who have tried it shake their heads and tell a different story, of chill nights, of rain, of fires that will not light and kettles that will not sing.

So it was that ten minutes into my ordeal, I was already beginning to wish I had taken Lestrade's advice and gone home.

With my limbs already numb from cold, it took what seemed like a long time to struggle to my feet and take a turn up and down the platform. On my fourth circuit, I happened to notice a pinprick of light in the far distance. My 'fine mansion' perhaps or, even better, the farmhouse I had surmised. I had to hope that they would take pity on a stranded stranger, ply him with tea and sympathy and suggest a means by which to make it home.

It was either that or risk freezing to death on this wind-blasted platform. I did not hesitate, but gathered my coat about me and set out across the field.

It was further than I had imagined. Five gates and five long fields later, the light seemed as distant as ever. Once it disappeared completely as I dropped into a dip and it was to my immense relief that I saw it reappear as I crested the slight incline. I pressed on, trying to not think of the ruin I was bringing to good shoe leather, and finally found myself on a grassy track, pock-marked by the hooves of cattle on their way to a long-roofed milking shed, which loomed out of the darkness and assaulted the nostrils with the rich smells of hay and livestock.

The farmhouse itself was a ramshackle affair, all sagging roof, moss-encrusted tiles and broken cobbles. I nearly lost my footing in the dark and ended up with bleeding shins after tripping over a large piece of ironwork, which I took to be a carelessly discarded plough of some sort. The light shone still, however, and I made my way towards it, groping along the rough brick of the walls until I found a door. I was about to knock when I heard the sound of gravel crunch beneath a boot behind me, the low, guttural growl of a large dog, and the unmistakeable click of gun being cocked.

"What thee be doing there?" came a gruff voice. "If you came a-stealing, I'll have the dog on you!"

The hound obligingly barked to reinforce the man's threat.

"I'm lost," I said, raising my hands. "I saw your light."

"Oh, lost, is it?" said the man. "There's many folk been lost in these here fields. Many too who weren't lost but were up to no good. What thee be doing wandering bout in dead of night?"

"I got out at the wrong station."

"Why's that?"

"I made a mistake. I thought this was Chislehurst."

"Chislehurst be six-an'half mile down the road."

"Yes, I know."

"Then why did thee get out here?"

It was the sort of conversation that one supposed might never end. I decided a direct appeal to the farmer's better nature, if he had one, might be a more profitable course of action.

"I'm cold, I'm tired and I'm hopelessly lost," I said. "I mean no harm. Please, can you help me in any way, perhaps even to direct me to Chislehurst?"

A long cough rattled out behind me. "I think you'd better step inside and let the missus see what she can do," said the man. "It's a fair walk from here to Chislehurst."

He rapped on the door with the barrel of his shotgun and hollered something incomprehensible to someone inside. The answer came in a barrage of foul oaths. The top hatch of the door swung open and a lank-haired ruddy-faced woman with a several prominent warts on her cheek thrust a candle forward to inspect us.

"He's lost, woman," said the man. "Let us in."

"Lost, is he?" said his wife, squinting suspiciously she looked me up and down. "Why's that then?"

I despaired of another round of inane questioning. The dog, however, had other ideas and began to bark furiously, drowning out their conversation. The farmer's wife, apparently more concerned with the dog's welfare than mine, threw open the lower half of the door whereupon the mangy beast pulled free of the farmer's restraining hand and dashed inside. I followed with rather more dignity and found myself in a fair-sized kitchen, furnace-hot and filled with the smell of beef boiling in a pot over a large range.

"Sit," said the farmer, gesturing to the bench that was set along the table.

In better light, I was able to see that he was a good head shorter than me, thick-set with a neck like an ox, and as weather-beaten and wrinkled in the face as his wife. Indeed, I have rarely met a couple more ideally matched in height, weight and mutual dislike.

"You'd best tell Styles," said the wife.

"Don't you be telling me my business, woman," said he querulously.

He thought better of his words when she picked up a meat cleaver and rushed at him. He hurried away, slamming the door to an inner parlour behind him.

"You'd better run, Jack Hancock," she yelled after him. "I catches you in my kitchen again, I'll have your guts for garters, so help me I will, and there's not a jury in the land would send me to the Tyburn dance for slaughtering you what with your ungodly ways!"

I had tried to remain unobtrusive during this domestic interlude and it had worked to the extent that Mrs Hancock appeared to have forgotten about me altogether. She was muttering darkly to herself as she wandered about the kitchen, gathering various items, including onions and a dead chicken, and depositing them on the table. I had had hopes of refreshment while we waited for Mr Styles, who I imagined to be the owner of the property, to put in an appearance. The kitchen's state of cleanliness left something to be desired, but even muddy water is nectar to a thirsty man.

"I don't suppose," I spoke up, "that a cup of tea might be in order? It was rather chilly out there."

Her answer was short and brutal. She glared at me, raised her arm and brought down the cleaver, severing the chicken's head with one blow. I did not ask again.

A few moments later, Hancock returned, although I noticed that he kept a respectful distance on the other side of the threshold. "Come," he grunted. "The master wants to see thee."

I was ushered into a musty study hung with dirty drapes and lit by several pungent candles. It had the air of gentle decay, a room which had once known wealth but had in recent years succumbed to a graceful decline. The furniture, once solid and respectable, if not overly elegant, was now home to colony of woodworm, whose burrowing habits had peppered the dark surface with a myriad of holes. The chair on which I was instructed to sit sagged alarmingly, causing me to fear that it was liable to collapse beneath my weight at the slightest movement. The experience was uncomfortable and disquieting, and not entirely because I was expecting to be deposited upon the floor at any moment.

I could not for one moment believe that this had been the unfortunate Carter's destination on the night of his death, although some innate sense was starting to tell me that all was not as it seemed at this ramshackle farmstead. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere, watched over by a man with a shotgun slung across his arm and a wife with an armoury of knives and cleavers at hand and a will to use them. I had made the cardinal and often fatal mistake of blundering into an unpromising situation without anyone in the world knowing where I was. That I had had the nerve in the past to cast doubt on the good sense of clients who came to us with such tales now filled me with a certain amount of shame.

I tried to take my mind from my situation by acquainting myself with my surroundings should the need arise to make a swift departure. The window was somewhat small, retaining those plastered brick mullions and leaded lights of a previous century, whilst the door through which we had entered and where Hancock still stood as sentry was the only way in or out. I supposed the desk might afford some protection against a bullet, although the room was too small to imagine that it would shelter me for long.

In the midst of this inspection, my attention was caught by what lay on the desk. A copy of that day's _Evening Standard_, spread open and arranged so that one item in particular lay uppermost. Even reading upside down, I could make out that it was an account of the cataclysmic fall in the stock prices of a certain South American country following unconfirmed reports of a revolutionary uprising.

What thrill of horror sped up my spine as I read those words I do not care to describe. Coincidences do happen, of course. But they should not occur too often – and not at lonely farms, not far distant from where a man met a grisly end under the wheels of a London-bound train. It appeared I had found the spider, only to have fallen foul of the web. The best I could hope now was that my story about being lost, which was true, would be accepted at face-value.

I did not have long to wait to find out. Presently the door opened and a tall, spare man in his sixties entered. Despite his rolled-up sleeves, he was impeccably elegant, his exquisite tailoring and the winking gold of his Albert chain seemingly at odds with his surroundings. He rounded the desk, smiling all the while as he wiped his hands on a cloth, and eyed me with interest.

"Good evening," said he. "You are?"

"Lost," I replied without thinking.

He permitted himself a small laugh. Then, inspecting his hands for cleanliness, he appeared satisfied as to their condition and dropped the cloth on the desk, where I could not fail to notice that it was stained with smears of blood.

"Your name," said he, lowering himself into the chair and regarding me over steepled fingertips. "You do have one?"

"Price. You are Mr Styles?"

"_Dr_ Styles," said he with emphasis.

"A medical man?"

"No, a doctor of philosophy. Now, you say you are lost?"

"Yes, I got out at the wrong station and became confused in the dark."

"An easy mistake to make. Why, only a month ago a fellow in a similar situation as your good self wandered in front of a train."

"A similar situation?"

"Yes, lost. You are lost, aren't you, _Dr Watson_?"

At the mention of my name, I started from my chair. Hancock took a step forward, only for Styles to wave him back.

"Do sit down, sir," said Styles unconcernedly. "Such unseemly haste tends to make Hancock here somewhat nervous, seeing how unaccustomed to the habit he is himself."

With the shotgun levelled at the small of my back, I decided that I could do worse than to follow Styles' advice and resumed my seat.

"Better," said Styles with approval. "Now, Dr Watson, what are you doing here?"

"How is it that you know my name?"

"You do not deny it then? That is good. I am one of those rare people who find deceit more shocking than honesty. As to how, well, that is easy enough to answer. This morning, I observed that Mr Holmes had a companion on his visit to Whitehall. Who else but the faithful Dr Watson, chronicler, ally, partner-in-crime? I had marked you for a man of intelligence, sir, yet here I find you attempting to deceive me with aliases."

"Whitehall, this morning?" My mind reeled at the implication of his words. "Then it was you—"

"Who fired the not-so fatal shot, yes, indeed it was. How I missed I shall never know. As a lad, I could take out the eye of a swan at 300 yards. Such is the curse of old age."

"Why?"

"You can hardly expect me to furnish you in so short a time with an adequate answer to a question which has vexed mankind since its earliest beginnings," said he, smiling so broadly that the landscape of his aged face was rearranged into a new composition of lines, folds and wrinkles.

While he spoke, he opened a drawer and took out a revolver, which he laid on the desk, and a silver cigarette case. The latter he opened and held out to me. He nodded with understanding when I disdained his offer and took one for himself, taking a moment to place it between his thin lips and light it.

"Let me instead ask you a question," said he, tossing the spent match into the empty grate. "Where is Mycroft Holmes?"

I stared at him. "I have no idea where he is."

The smile faded behind the veils of blue smoke. "Socrates believed that the greatest wisdom a man could possess was the acknowledgement of his own ignorance. It has its limits, however. Do reconsider your answer, Doctor."

"You may threaten me, Dr Styles, but it does not alter the fact that I know only that Mr Holmes went missing yesterday. I should also say that even if I was aware of his whereabouts," I added with a note of defiance, "I would not tell you, since clearly you wish the gentleman ill."

"No, Dr Watson, I wish to kill him, that is the extent of my interest. He had but one role to play in this drama, and that he has failed to perform."

"Which was?"

"Simply to go to York. Oh, leave he did. He was seen to depart by the morning train. Several of my men were waiting for him at York station, yet he did not appear. He has not been seen since."

I had a strong recollection of York being the location of the firm of solicitors who had handled the alleged contract between Sir Ranulf Holmes and Mrs Harper. In addition, Holmes had said that his brother had been agitated the morning of his departure. It was obvious to me now that the missive which caused this distress had been news of the existence of the contract, causing Mycroft Holmes had set out for York immediately to investigate, as Styles had hoped.

That such a slothful individual had broken his usual habits to go in person was not difficult to believe; on such a sensitive issue, I too would be unwilling to trust to the discretion of the telegraph office. His not leaving word was understandable too, as was his reluctance to confide in or send his younger sibling in his place, perhaps wishing to spare him the sordid details, if sordid they were.

His actions implied two possibilities: either that he had been convinced by the authenticity of the document or that he had suspected a trap all along. The fact he had subsequently disappeared strongly suggested the latter.

"You must understand," Styles went on, his voice flat, calm, conversational almost, "that I have gone to a great deal of time and effort to ensure the completion of a certain chain of events. One man shall not stand in the way of such a carefully-contrived plan."

"Plan? You refer to the ruin of the British government and economy."

He appeared mildly taken aback. "No, my dear sir, I refer to the acquisition of wealth. Diogenes may have found his bowl and barrel satisfactory, but I require a more comfortable existence. Teaching brings few rewards, financially or otherwise, and the work of a lifetime may be forgotten in the blink of an eye. If one cannot benefit from one's talents, then what the devil use are they? Well, then, tonight the Cabinet meet to discuss what is to be done about the present crisis. I have no doubt they will vote to sell the stocks and recoup what little they can. But who will buy? Why, the man who knows that what is worth a penny today will be valued at a pound tomorrow."

"Then the news of the revolution…?"

"Is quite inaccurate, as the papers will report in due course." He paused and his hand went to the revolver. "I tell you this because you may rest assured that you will not live to see tomorrow. If I were to permit you to leave this place, you would go straight to the authorities and tell them what you know. That is the burden of knowledge, Dr Watson. How much happier you would have been to remain in ignorance." He raised the gun and levelled it at me. "However, there is one final duty you can perform."

"I shall not assist you in any way."

"Rest assured, it does not require your assistance, merely your presence. Get up, sir. Hancock, bind his hands."

My arms were pulled behind me and a thick cord was duly knotted about my wrists. Styles rose and gestured in the direction of the door. My refusal to comply did not hinder them; Styles took my arm and forced me out of the room. By this means, we made our way to a door, which Hancock unlocked to reveal yawning darkness beyond and a flight of wooden steps leading down into an abyss of perpetual night.

Hancock's lantern became our beacon of illumination as we descended into a cellar smelling of dampness and fungi. The light picked out a few items of furniture, several crates and assorted boxes, the usual clutter that ends up being relegated to less than satisfactory storage conditions. To my growing horror, in the midst of this jumble, I began to make out the shape of a seated figure, bound to his chair, stripped down to bloodied shirtsleeves and a grime-encrusted sack draped before his eyes.

Some instinct within me had already given a face to this unfortunate long before Hancock did as his master instructed and pulled the sacking from the prisoner's head. Then, tousled-haired and blinking in the sudden glow of the light, his eyes met mine. For the most fleeting of moments, I saw there a look of alarm and perhaps a little disappointment before it faded into something approaching the usual jaunty defiance and imperiousness that he reserved for moments of crisis.

I was not reassured, however. That I should be reunited with my missing friend under these circumstances did not bode well for either Holmes or myself.

No word was allowed to pass between us, for Styles pulled me briskly in front of him and ground the barrel of the gun against my temple.

"I have but one question for you, Mr Holmes," said he. "And I suggest you consider your response very carefully, for if you place no value on your own life, perhaps you may spare a thought for that of your companion. Now, for the last time, where is your brother?"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Twelve!**_


	12. Chapter Twelve

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Twelve: Reunions & Revelations**

I am not fortunate enough to possess any sense of foresight, although for once the events of the next few minutes seemed clear enough. Whether or not Holmes knew where his brother was, I could not say. I did not discount the possibility that since our parting earlier that afternoon, he had discovered his whereabouts and the pair had collaborated, only for Holmes to fall foul of whatever fate had caused him to be here, in a foul farmhouse cellar on the Kent border.

It was not so much the past that was worrying me as the future, for I knew what Holmes's reply would be to such a question. Blood is thicker than water, after all, and I would never have expected him to trade his brother's life for mine. I was about to be shot on the eve of my wedding by a deranged doctor of philosophy, and, bound as I was, there was nothing I could do about it.

I am glad to say that, despite his own unpromising situation, Holmes had other ideas.

"You may shoot Dr Watson," said he, maintaining what I can only describe as an admirable calm under the circumstances; "indeed, you may shoot half the people of London, but it will not change the fact that my answer will ever remain the same. Ergo, you must carry out your earlier threat and compound Watson's murder with mine, for I have no knowledge of my brother's whereabouts."

Encouraging the fellow in his madness seemed foolhardy to me. One likes to think there is always a way out of these situations, however bleak the prospects. I had to hope that Holmes knew what he was doing, otherwise our life expectancy was about to be cut short.

I did not have long to wait to find out.

"It is as I had anticipated," said Styles, lowering his revolver. "I trust you will forgive these unnecessary dramatics, Mr Holmes, but I had to be sure that you were telling me the truth."

"I would have expected no less."

"Most decent of you, sir. We shall find him, of course."

"You shall not succeed."

"Nevertheless, we shall try. Failure would be… _unacceptable_."

The grip loosened on my arm and I was propelled across the filth-strewn cellar.

"Hancock, deal with him," said Styles. "Oh, and leave the light. They may wish to talk."

A chair was produced and into this I was manhandled and roughly bound with a length of rope, which was passed round the both of us and knotted tightly enough to cause some restriction to my breathing. Satisfied with his work, Hancock left, slamming the door at the top of the stairs and rattling the key in the lock. Then, in the silence that followed, Holmes began to laugh.

"I can't imagine what you find so funny," said I.

"Oh, my dear fellow," said he, catching his breath. "Are you not struck by the absurdity of the situation? Do you not see? All this time, we have been overly concerned about Mycroft's welfare, when in fact he was safe and out of harm's way. Now the roles are reversed, I fear he will not expend so much effort on our behalf."

"Absurd perhaps," I conceded, "but this is serious, Holmes."

"Yes, it is," he mused. "For that reason, I cannot say that I am happy to see you, Watson. It must come as no surprise when I tell you that the future does not hold a great deal of promise for either of us if our Dr Styles has his way."

"I thought he was most explicit as to his intentions."

A moment's pause ensued. "He would not have shot you. At present, it does not suit his purpose, and bullet wounds in corpses lead to questions. If you believe I would willingly gamble with your life in such a way, then you do not know me at all."

"I wouldn't expect you to place your brother's safety over mine."

"Mycroft can take care of himself," Holmes said crisply. "Which is exactly what he has done in this case, and without a thought for anyone else, I might add. He has gone to ground somewhere, and nothing will shift him. Styles believes otherwise, of course. He labours under that common misconception that family loyalties overrule good common sense. In the case of my family, they do not. Twice he has tried to incapacitate me, mistakenly believing that Mycroft would rush to the bedside of his ailing brother."

"He told me that he had shot at you in Whitehall. _This_ was his reasoning?"

"Unfortunately, the man has a veritable fixation with finding Mycroft and speeding him to the grave. It is a desire which knows no bounds. It is unreasonable to the point of madness." He gave a dry chuckle. "I have always known Mycroft to be irritating, but I had thought it was my failing of patience. It is gratifying to note that he is capable of producing a similar reaction in others."

I could not and did not share his strange sense of humour. If Styles was as deranged as he claimed, then what would be his next move?

"My murder, naturally," said Holmes nonchalantly when I put this to him. "He persists in maintaining that Mycroft will be unable to turn away from the prospect of leaving his brother's corpse in the hands of strangers."

"Will he?"

"No."

"And I have called you heartless!"

"My dear fellow, what would be gained by such rashness? Mycroft knows his life is threatened; I dare say he was alerted to the fact that something was afoot when his watch and chain were stolen."

"Ah, is that how they ended up on our dead Mr Harper?"

"Undoubtedly. What is to be gained in exposing himself if I am dead? From a practical point of view, there is nothing he could do. No, not even news of my death will cause him to break cover; when he does, it will be when he is good and ready. Styles will not find him. Mycroft is fiendishly clever in that respect. They misplaced him once, at his school, as I recall. He appeared a week later, having been to London in the meantime to visit the theatre, all the while disguised as an elderly clergyman. I can only think it raised a few eyebrows in the stalls; the play, if memory serves, was one of those bawdy Restoration comedies."

"Then you do not know where he is?"

"Not in the slightest. He could be living in the lumber room at Baker Street for all I know. I did try to persuade Styles on this point, but he would not believe me." Then, almost as an afterthought, added: "Of course, he had to be sure."

The implication of this made my insides crawl. "Good heavens," I whispered. "Are you hurt?"

I felt him shift slightly. "My pride, Watson, will feel the effects of this night's work for a very long time. As to the rest, well, it is nothing that will not heal, given time. They do say that the crudest methods are the most effective. To tell you the truth, I was somewhat surprised that he resorted to such means, for he had no relish for the task. It was an act of sheer desperation. That in itself is of interest, for I had expected him to be a most rational man."

"Rational! He seems to me a violent lunatic with delusions of grandeur."

Holmes shook his head. "Could such a person have created this elaborate scheme of deception and intrigue? No, Watson. It required a clear head and careful planning. That Styles feels it necessary now to go to such extraordinary lengths to remove my brother from the scene is suggestive."

"Of what?"

"That he is not the originator of this plan. He is answerable to someone else, someone he fears."

"Holmes, that seems rather a stretch."

"Not at all, my dear fellow. He has conspired to bring down the government by the most elaborate means, yet he risks capture by venturing into Whitehall with a rifle to shoot me? Is that the action of a clever, logical man? Why not employ one of his minions to do it for him?"

"Because he said he was an excellent shot."

Holmes shook his head. "One can take arrogance too far. And now, despite all that has happened, he has made the most elementary mistake of all: leaving us tied up together. Do you think you could possibly bring your hands down just a little lower? My arm will not tolerate any excess movement at present."

As uncomfortable was it was, I managed to do as he asked. His fingers brushed mine as he felt his way up to the knotted cords about my wrists.

"Should I ever find the time to complete my masterwork on the art of the detection," said he, as he set to work on my bonds, "I shall have to include a chapter on getting out of tight spots. In such cases, a companion in confinement has to be preferred over solitary imprisonment. It is infinitely easier to liberate someone else than it is to free oneself."

"Better not to have got yourself in that situation in the first place," I said, wincing as once or twice his nails removed a sliver of my skin. "What did happen to you?"

"I was kidnapped," he stated flatly. "It really was the most appalling business. I was set upon by two ruffians in broad daylight, chloroformed and bundled into a cab. I awoke some hours later to find myself here. I am wholly ashamed of myself. Normally, two would have presented no problem, but I have sluggish of late, Watson!"

"Most likely the effects of the morphine. You should have been in bed, not chasing half across town."

"Well, it has worn off now. With lucidity of mind comes the realisation that from beginning to end, this case has been a litany of failure on my part."

"I do think you are being hard on yourself. It has been, and still is, a complicated business."

"That will be small comfort to us unless we find a means of escape. Failure is unacceptable to me as it is to Styles, for the result will inevitably be the same. If _I _am not hard on myself, then who shall? Not you, my dear fellow. You are far too forgiving."

"I believe not. I can hold a grudge with the best of men."

"You _are_ the best of men," said he; "which makes my role as your 'best man' redundant. Far from delivering you to the altar in good time, I fear I have only delayed the inevitable."

"Do not trouble yourself unduly," I replied. "I was wondering whether Lestrade was right. Perhaps Thursday is an unpropitious day on which to marry."

A long silence followed, punctuated only by the sounds of our breathing. When Holmes spoke again, his voice was soft.

"Watson," said he, "you will not be pleased to hear me say this, but the answer to your problem is perfectly simple. If you do not wish to wed, then do not do so. Tell Miss Morstan you have had a change of heart or some such sentiment, and put an end to this misery for both of you."

"What a terrible thing to say!" I said, somewhat taken aback. "I shall do no such thing."

"Better to disappoint her now than embarrass her at the altar. Oh, you would not be the first. There was a case in Riga in '64, where a bridegroom went missing an hour before the ceremony. His disappearance was always a mystery until he was discovered twelve years later in a remote Italian monastery."

"Well, I have no intention of following his example. Why on earth would you think that?"

"A careful observance of _you_ makes me think it. Three times in the space of one day have you made some reference to delaying your forthcoming nuptials. My brother is dead; therefore, you propose a postponement. My brother is alive, but missing, another reason to delay, for you say you cannot marry without my presence. Now this talk of ill omens! Forgive my bluntness, Watson, but you appear to be falling upon any excuse to avoid the ties of matrimony."

Although I disputed his reasoning, I had to acknowledge that he touched on something which had been playing on my mind. "You misunderstand, Holmes. I love Mary, that is not in doubt. Marriage is, however, a considerable undertaking. I shall have responsibilities, and what with the problems with the house and trying to build up the practice—"

"Watson, you shall thrive."

"As ready as I am to bow to your wisdom in many things, Holmes, you cannot possibly know that for certain."

"I am as certain as I can be, knowing you as I do. Never have I encountered a fellow more suited to wedlock. I would go as far as to venture that it is your natural state. You are hard-working and resourceful. What more is required of a prospective bridegroom?"

"Common sense," I grunted. "I seem to have been lacking in that respect lately."

"I had not noticed."

"I am here, that is evidence enough."

His tussles with my bonds briefly halted while he gave my statement due consideration. "Do you mean to say that you were not brought here by force?"

"No, I came looking for you."

"My dear fellow, this is quite a revelation! How did you know where to look?"

"We had a visitor. He claimed acquaintance with you—a Mr Turpin?"

"Honest Dick?" said Holmes. "I know him of old. What news?"

"He said he had heard that you were looking for Mr Swithin Harper and wanted to help." I had reached the most difficult part of my story, and was glad that I did not have to meet his penetrating and accusatory gaze as I did so. "He brought a document. A contract that had been in the possession of a Mr Morris Carter."

"Mournful Morris," Holmes mused. "A rogue, by all accounts."

"No longer. He met with an accident."

"A dead rogue then, but a rogue all the same."

My mouth had grown strangely dry. I had to wet my lips before I could continue. "Well, I wondered if the location of his death had any connection with this document or the person who had commissioned him to find it. So I came here."

As I explained it, I was struck by the absurdity of my reasoning. It had seemed logical at the time and had proved itself sound. Had I given it greater thought, however, I might be at Baker Street still.

"Carter met his death near to this place?" Holmes asked. "How did he die?"

"He was killed by a train on the level crossing." At hearing this, he renewed his efforts with the ropes around my wrists with greater force. "Holmes, what have I said?"

"Patterns, Watson. Where a method of disposal has proved successful once, invariably the murderer will return to it again. Unless I am able to free us, we shall soon find ourselves under the wheels of a train. By the way, what was this document? You did not tell me."

"Oh, nothing in particular."

"Clearly it was _something_ in particular," he returned. "Something concerned with our Mr Harper or why should Honest Dick take the trouble of bringing it to you?"

"Well, it doesn't matter now. You can see for yourself when we get home."

"Watson," said he with a sigh, "my patience is limited, as is our time. I should prefer to hear now, however delicate your sensibilities on the subject."

I had not envisaged having to break the news to him, least of all in these dire circumstances. Still I would have chosen not to do so, but I knew he would not let the matter lie. I decided if I had to be the bearer of bad news, then I must soften its effect.

"Holmes, is there Sir Ranulf in your family?"

"Several. Why?"

I swallowed. "This contract mentioned someone by that name, in connection with a Mrs Harper. A sum of money was paid to her, £500 to be exact, on the understanding that she removed herself from the area. I knew it was a forgery of course—"

"What was the year?"

"1846."

Around my wrists, the rope started to loosen. With my companion was slow to reply, an awkward silence was growing and I felt compelled to say something.

"I did wonder," I said, "if that was the reason your brother left yesterday morning. Styles said he should have been in York. That was the location—"

"Of my grandfather's solicitors," said Holmes. "Yes, the implications had already occurred to me. The date, a year before my brother's birth, would suggest some impropriety on my father's part with this Mrs Harper, that his father in turn sought to assuage by ending the association. It would suggest that kinship exists between the late Mr Harper and myself. It is nonsense, however."

"Yes, exactly as I thought."

"No," said Holmes, "you were unsure, which is why you were so reluctant to tell me just now. Let me set your mind at rest. If Mycroft left, it was because he recognised that this document was a 'lure'. It was the prompt which told him that the game was afoot. I can assure you that he would have attached no truth to it at all."

My bonds finally fell away.

"There, you are free," he continued. "Now, if you can get yourself clear of these ropes around us, we shall take to our heels and escape this wretched place."

"I shall try," I assured him, "although they are somewhat tight."

"Did you not inhale when they were tied around us? Those precious few inches may mean life or death. Very well, I shall give you what leeway I can. But I must press upon you the urgency of the situation."

After a long and for the most part painful struggle, I did at last succeed in getting the ropes over my head. I freed Holmes, had to help him to his feet, after which he disdained my assistance, and so, with him leading the way, we started up the rickety wooden stairs.

"The key has been left in the lock," said he. "That is to our advantage. With a piece of paper and a length of wire, I shall have this door open in no time at all."

The door, however, opened suddenly and without any intervention from my friend. Styles stood framed in the open doorway, the gun in his hand trained unwavering at us.

"I must congratulate you, gentlemen, for your timing is excellent," said he. "I was on my way to collect you, for the 11.38 Hastings train is due shortly, and I most certainly do not want you to miss it!"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Thirteen!**_


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Thirteen: Collisions**

"Watson, do you happen to have a blade of any description about your person?"

The question, reasonable enough under the circumstances, required an answer that I feared would prove little use to either of us.

"Well, yes, but only a fruit knife."

"Where?"

"My waistcoat pocket."

"Which side?"

"Nearest to you."

He was sat beside me to my left, although not by choice. We were rattling along a deserted country lane in a dilapidated hansom cab, the battered suspension groaning and creaking at every pot-hole and rut we hit, knowing that the end of our journey was a level-crossing and certain death under the wheels of a train. Our hands were tied, literally and metaphorically, and we were entirely at the mercy of our captors.

We had been able to offer very little resistance. Despite Holmes's assurances about Styles's unwillingness to leave incriminating bullet holes in his victims, I have always found that a revolver, backed up by a shotgun, is most convincing argument against unwise attempts at rushing headlong into disaster. Had he been on his own, I wondered if Holmes would have been so reticent. As it was, he looked at me and shook his head. There would be other opportunities, he seemed to be saying, and with that, I concurred, for there is nothing like being shot for reducing one's capacity for escape, as I could testify from painful experience.

It was enough that we were still alive, although for how much longer remained to be seen.

"Do you think you could stand?" Holmes persisted.

I wondered briefly what insane plan was fermenting in his brain.

"Because I fear I cannot reach your pocket from this position," said he in answer to my question.

"How the devil are you going to reach it? Your hands are tied."

He gave me a look of weary patience. "But my mouth is not. If you bear the insult to your dignity, I shall attempt to free us. That is, unless you would prefer to take your chances and trust to Providence? You did say that you told no one you were coming here?"

There was a certain sincere logic in his request, if little by way of good practical sense. I defy anyone to stand against the inward sweep of a hansom cab's folding doors while one's fellow passenger attempts to extract a pearl-handled penknife from an inner pocket using teeth alone. It is not a situation I should like to have to repeat, not least because my stooped position, braced against seat and door whilst the rocking of the vehicle tried its best to throw me off-balance, was unforgiving and uncomfortable. Once, I nearly collapsed onto him, causing some muffled protest about my having near broken his nose. Finally, however, the deed was done. Holmes dropped the knife into his cupped hands and prised open the blade. He studied it, and then gave me a look of rebuke.

"Did you forget to have it sharpened?" he asked. "Or do you always treat your possessions with such wilful neglect?"

"It is only a fruit knife," I said. "It never mattered before."

"Well, it does now. This thin piece of blunted steel may be all that stands between us and the 11.38 Hastings train." With care, he turned it so that the blade rested against the cords around his wrists and began to saw back and forth. "How much further until we reach the level-crossing?"

"I cannot say with any certainty. I was lucky to find the farmhouse at all."

"Your choice of words is unfortunate," said he with a grunt of laughter. "Luck, I fear, had nothing to do with it. Be that as it may, we must make the best of a bad situation."

"Bad?" I echoed, rather numbly. "I do not see how it could be any worse."

"My dear fellow, now is not the time for despondency. We have escaped once; we shall do so again. Our Dr Styles has fallen into that trap that has claimed many a clever man, namely of assuming that no one is his equal in intelligence. He sees his own narrow course and no other. His first mistake was in committing us to companionable confinement, and then to not ridding you of this knife." He snorted with frustration and renewed his efforts. "Even as ineffectual as it is."

"I am not despondent," I replied. "It seems to me, however, that whatever the outcome of tonight, we have failed to prevent the ruin of the country. If Styles has erred, it is not in the completion of his grand scheme."

"I take it that the revolution has yet to be confirmed?"

"Not officially, although Styles told me that the reports were inaccurate."

"As I predicted."

"Share prices have tumbled, all the same."

"Then as long as the government holds its nerve, this storm shall be weathered."

"The Cabinet meets tonight to discuss the situation. Styles was confident they would decide to sell and recoup what little they could. He said that he intends to buy the stocks and then when prices recover—"

"He would be rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Ask yourself, Watson, what would a man do with such unimaginable wealth? There is only so much he can reasonably spend in his lifetime and, as countless generations have proved, it is impossible to take it with him. No, Styles shall have his due, but the lion's share will go to his master. Here then we have our answer as to why it is so vital that my brother be kept from Whitehall at this critical time. Yet, more than likely, he has been there along."

"Then why call you in this morning?" I queried.

"They have a traitor?" He put the question as much for his own benefit as for any answer he expected from me. "Yes, that might explain a good many things. Who would know better of my brother's role as…" His eyes flickered briefly in my direction. "As advisor in all matters financial to the Premier than someone in the Cabinet?"

I thought back to our morning's interview. "Lord Pendleby, Chancellor of the Exchequer!. He was most in favour of selling. It has to be him!"

"Then most likely it is not," said Holmes, smiling. "Such is your unfailing instinct for settling on the wrong man that I have come to depend upon it. If anyone, I should say it was the Home Secretary, Lord Rossdale."

"Rossdale? But he seemed…"

"A most upright gentleman? Yes, the most successful villains usually are. Pendleby is, to use the old quotation, 'full of sound and fury, signifying nothing'. Against his bluster, you must consider Rossdale, who along with Styles, superficially appears to be a model of respectability." He gave a dry laugh. "It is always reassuring to know that our ancient universities are still capable of producing a better class of criminal."

"But why on earth would Rossdale agree to such a… a _fiendish_ scheme? As a politician, he would know what must surely happen."

"You forget," said Holmes; "it is widely predicted that Rossdale will be the next Prime Minister. A crisis like this would force the current incumbent from office and leave the door open for him to take his place."

"He would inherit a poisoned chalice of economic ruin!"

"Not necessarily." In the faint glow from the cab's lamps, his eyes glittered as he momentarily lifted his gaze to mine. "Styles, or the person for whom he acts, would offer to lend the government, now under the control of Rossdale, the money needed to keep the economy stable, capital I should add which would come from the very stocks that the former Premier had so precipitously sold. The situation would be of advantage to all parties concerned. The crisis would be averted, Rossdale would have his position, and our unseen benefactor would have control of the government."

"With Rossdale as his puppet."

"Exactly. The only fly in this otherwise flawless ointment is Mycroft. Only he could convince the Cabinet otherwise in the absence of confirmation of the situation. I doubt that the report of the agent sent across the border to investigate ever reached the Premier's desk; Rossdale would have seen to that. It is a dangerous business, Watson. One most hope that Mycroft and the Premier are playing a very close hand, which involves the latter denying all knowledge of my brother's whereabouts whilst they attempt to flush Rossdale out into the open. If I am right, it is a game of double bluff. Tonight, the Premier will agree to the sale, but the order will not be put through. Rossdale, ignorant of the deception, will make his move on the morrow and then they shall have him."

I took moment to digest all he had told me. "But, Holmes, why do they plan to murder you—us—now? By killing you, they lose any leverage they may have had over your brother. Even if your brother is forced to expose himself by coming forward to identify your body, it will not change the plans he has made with the Premier."

"Because they do not know Mycroft has _already_ made those plans. Perhaps they imagine or know, however mistakenly, that he has not yet communicated with the Prime Minister. Remember, whatever decision the Cabinet makes will not be implemented until morning when the stock markets open again. We still have time."

"Do we?" I said doubtfully. "You did say _if_ you were right. What if you are not?"

"Then Mycroft _is_ missing, the Premier is unaware that he is about to be led into a trap, and we are to be murdered to keep us from telling what we know. Although, I must say, Watson," he added, somewhat chagrined, "I do think that your remark shows an appalling lack of faith in me after all these years."

"My faith in you, Holmes, has never been in question."

"Then you do believe that I shall extract us from our current predicament?"

I chose my words carefully. "I believe that _you_ believe you shall, yes."

"That is not quite the same thing."

"No doubt it has something to do with the fact that we are fast approaching the level-crossing."

The dim glow of the lamp had fallen on a gap in the black wall of the hedge, and on the road beyond two shining rails marked the iron path of the train. Our cab slowed, and Styles, who had been following on his mettlesome chestnut mare, now rode ahead. Crossing the tracks, he turned his horse and gestured for Hancock, who had been acting as our cabman, to drive on. After some manoeuvring, we were left stranded, slantwise across the lines, our backs to the oncoming train.

"This is where we must part," said Styles, the light picking out the irregular line of his yellow teeth as he grinned down at us. "You should not have too long to wait. Still, it is better to be too early than too late where trains are concerned. Hancock, see to the horse."

I had expected him to unhitch the beast and turn it loose. What he did, however, was to take out a knife and draw it across the animal's throat. A great wash of blood swept across the tracks and pooled on the compacted earth of the road. The horse buckled at the knees and collapsed without a sound, pitching us forward as the cab went down with the dying animal.

"Shocking how many accidents occur at these small country sidings," said Styles, his nose wrinkling with distaste. "I understand there has been a move to have gates installed here for some time, but the railway company would never listen. Well, perhaps they will now after yet another accident."

"It would be a strange journey that required us to travel with our hands tied," Holmes observed.

"The police are very dull about these things. It has been my experience that they are more than willing to accept the obvious explanation."

"Like the death of Morris Carter?" I said.

"The man was drunk and wandered in front of a train."

"There is a world of difference between the smell of alcohol on a man's breath and its presence on his clothes, Dr Styles. I would wager that he was sober when he met his death."

"Yes, he was," said Styles unconcernedly. "Sober, but unconscious. He did make such a fuss that it was necessary to…" He smiled at Hancock. "Quieten him. I understand now what brought you here, Dr Watson. My men assured me that they hadn't been followed earlier when they brought Mr Holmes to the farm, and I didn't credit you with enough intelligence to have concealed yourself from them. But, for all that, you, gentlemen, like the unfortunate Mr Carter, have outlived your usefulness."

"Except as a lure for my brother," said Holmes.

Styles chuckled. "Oh, forgive me, didn't I say? My men brought word before we left. Your brother has been found and… _dealt with_. That only leaves you."

I fancied I saw a little of the colour drain from Holmes's cheeks, although his expression was as immovable and inscrutable as ever.

"Well, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but now I fear I must leave you to your dying. Matters of some import await my attention in London. Oh, and, Hancock, you had best stay close and remove the ropes from whatever is left of the bodies. Perhaps, as Mr Holmes rightly points out, that would stretch credibility too far even for the dullards at the local police station."

With this parting shot, he turned his horse and set off at a canter. Hancock extinguished the cab's lights and retreated into the undergrowth. We were alone, with a train due at any moment, a blunt knife and each other for company.

"You may say it if you wish," Holmes said, setting to work again on his bonds.

"Say what?"

"That I was wrong. It seems I credited Mycroft with rather more intelligence than he in fact had. Now more than ever it is vital that we get word to the Prime Minister."

"There's the small matter of our escape first."

"A mere detail." The rope was fast unravelling and with one final effort the severed cords sprang apart. "There," said he, a little out of breath. "Now, Doctor, let us see if we cannot free you also."

"You forget, Holmes, even if we are able to leave this accursed cab, there is still a man in the bushes with a shotgun."

"He worries me less than the approaching train. Hold still."

He set to work, but the knife was to prove unequal to the task. The slim blade snapped as soon as he applied the slightest pressure, leaving two ineffectual, broken pieces.

"That was good Sheffield steel," I remarked in answer to Holmes's admonition about the quality of my purchase.

"Then I should say that this particular item was not a recommendation for the brand."

He said something about trying to untie the knots, but I had other concerns. I had become aware of a low rumble, such as comes with the shifting of the earth, rising up through the wheels of the cab and through the seat. The merest of vibrations at first, it grew in strength until the metal links of the horse's harness began faintly to chime. Over Holmes's shoulder, through the cab's window, I could see a grey curtain of smoke rising above a distant black mass of trees. The cold certainty settled over my soul that only one of us would make it away from this place alive.

"Holmes, you must go," I insisted. "Leave me."

"You must have noticed," said he, intent on the delicate work of unpicking one infuriating knot after knot, "that my escape is bound up with yours. It is impossible for me to leave without taking you with me."

This was patently untrue. We had been tied so that my hands were bound to the handle of Holmes's door and his to mine, and then looped back around so that the rope could not slip free and the door open of its own accord. Even if he could not open the door, he could have climbed over the top and made his escape that way. He was staying, not because he had to, but because he wanted to, and I was heartily glad of every second he was at my side.

"Besides," said he, "I have no intention of marrying your bride in your absence on Thursday simply because you were careless enough to get run down by a train."

I laughed in spite of myself. "Most inconsiderate of me, I do apologise."

"Yes, you should. I have heard many excuses in my time, Watson, but this must count as one of the better ones. How close is the train?"

I swallowed hard. "Once it clears the trees and rounds the bend, it will be on us in a matter of seconds."

The grey plumes were drawing steadily closer, and I could hear now the engine's roar as on it thundered through the night. But there was another sound too and closer, of galloping hooves and men's voices. I craned my head round in time to see a police wagon hurtling along the lane towards us. As the horses were brought to a halt, a familiar figure detached itself from the front seat of the vehicle and came running over.

"Hey, you in the cab, what do you think you're doing? Get off the—why, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson! Good heavens, whatever are you doing here, sirs?"

"Lestrade, have you a knife?" Holmes demanded.

"Well, I think, somewhere here I've got my old penknife—yes!"

He had barely time to pass it across before the night exploded in a flash of flame as a gunshot whipped his hat clean off his head.

"Oh, yes, there's a man over there with a shotgun," said Holmes calmly, as Lestrade was sent scuttling behind the wheel of the cab. "I do apologise; I should have mentioned it sooner."

"You lot," the Inspector barked to the others in the wagon. "Over there and get that gun off that lunatic. You, Dawkins, get down the track and stop that train."

"You mean, _that_ train, Inspector?"

I glanced up to see that the hissing, steaming, fire-breathed monster had rounded the corner and was bearing down upon us. Whistling furiously as it came, I saw the silhouette of the driver against the red glow thrown out by the engine's furnace, gesturing furiously from his cab for us to get out of his way. I heard the tortured squeal as he applied the brakes, saw the sparks fly as metal ground against metal, and, deafened now by the roar and rumble and banshee wail of the approaching train, I turned to Holmes one last time.

"Holmes, for heaven's sake, go!" I urged. "And tell Mary that—"

I do not know how he did it. I only know that suddenly my hands were free, the door was open, and some great force had grabbed me by the lapels of my coat and had hurled me clear. In that moment of suspension before the ground came up to meet me, noise and fury like the simultaneous blast of a hundred cannons erupted behind me. With it came the banshee wail as the sliding train colliding with the cab, scattering fragments of wheel, glass and splinters of wood in every direction to rain down on us as some sharp, solid shower, and then on ploughing through flesh and bone before finally, brought to heel, it shuddered to a grudging halt.

A moment of silence, as all took a collective breath, and then there were people shouting, running, climbing down from their carriages and above it all the urgent peel of a police whistle. Somehow I had landed on Lestrade, who was winded but otherwise uninjured, and, despite an appalling ache from my leg and several large splinters that had impaled my arms and back, I too seemed to have come through the ordeal mostly unscathed. In the chaos of the smoke and throng of concerned faces, I searched in vain for the one person I needed to find most of all.

But Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

"Dear God," I whispered to Lestrade. "He did get away from that cab in time… didn't he?"

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Fourteen!**_


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Fourteen: Aftermath**

I told myself that I was worrying unnecessarily, that of course Holmes had got clear of the cab in the seconds before the impact. However, he was not at my side. Nor was he in the gathering crowd with their offers of help and outstretched hands. Concern drove me to my feet, only to collapse as I was struck by pain-induced wave of nausea that rose from my leg and curdled in my stomach.

I took a deep breath, steadied my nerves and tried again.

The hissing engine stood before me, a great metal wall, hot to the touch and still spewing copious amounts of steam. Figures drifted out of the tainted mist in various states of bewilderment, none of them the one person for whom I searched and none able to tell me if they had seen a man matching Holmes's description. I rounded the front of the train, bleating like a lost lamb, absurdly aware that I was making a spectacle of myself and not caring one jot.

Finally, and to my overwhelming relief, the billowing clouds gave up their prize. He was dusty, his coat was torn and his dark hair had fanned across his brow in a rather rakish fashion, but he was alive. I was never so glad to see anyone in all my life.

"Holmes, thank heavens!" I cried, clasping him by the arms to be sure that I was not deceived by an illusion. He was solid enough to wince. In my joy at finding him I forgot that his clothes masked previous injuries. "Wherever did you get to? When I couldn't find you, I thought–"

"That I had been foolish enough not to extract myself in time?" said he, raising an eyebrow marked by a small rivulet of blood that had flowed from a slight graze on his brow. "Your failing confidence in me knows no bounds."

"At least you are in one piece." His reply to that was muted. "Holmes, you _are_ all right?"

"Not entirely, Watson. I appear to have added two broken fingers to my growing list of injuries." He offered his left hand briefly for my inspection before withdrawing it. "Your concern is noted, but we have more pressing business," said he. "Matters of state weigh above those of broken bones."

I could have argued that point, but I did not. There are some battles one cannot win. Instead I followed his lead, taking as much care of my injured leg as I could, back to where Lestrade was attempting to bring order to chaos. We were fortunate that the train had not derailed during the incident, and now efforts were underway to reverse the engine and clear the rails. Another train was due and a constable had been despatched down the line to the next station to warn of the delay ahead. Since the collision had not proved fatal and it was only a question of scraping the remains of the horse and the splintered wood from the tracks, the driver was opining that he saw no reason why he should not continue with his journey, since, as he put it, he had a timetable to keep to and there was a controller further down the line who would want to know why he was running late.

"I'm sorry, sir," Lestrade was telling him as we approached. "It isn't quite as simple as that. There's been a crime committed here."

"Well, it's nothing to do with my train or my passengers," said the sooty little fellow, puffing up his chest with a degree of self-importance that did not accord with either his position or his duties. "Once we've cleared the tracks, we'll be on our way, whatever the police want to make of it."

Away he went, leaving Lestrade grinding his teeth and muttering darkly. His expression did not alter significantly when he saw us.

"Oh, you've found him, have you?" said he. "I told you he'd turn up sooner or later. Now then, Mr Holmes, I don't suppose you'd like to tell me why you and Dr Watson were tied up in a hansom cab in the middle of nowhere?"

"Why don't you tell us what _you_ are doing here, Inspector? Your presence was fortuitous."

Lestrade glanced at me and shook his head. "Shortly after you left this evening, Dr Watson, I had some information about the whereabouts of Mr Holmes's brother," he began, sighing with the frustration of man who is clearly dissatisfied with the situation but knows there is little he can do about it. "I went to Baker Street myself, seeing how this message was of a personal nature, and frankly, I was concerned that you hadn't gone home like you said you would."

"I hadn't," I admitted.

"As I found when I got there. It occurred to me that you might have gone on a wild goose chase after Mr Holmes, and, well, after our discussion, I was starting to have my doubts about Carter's death." He fixed Holmes with an even stare. "I'm aware that there's more to this business than you're willing to tell me, but all the same, I thought it best to err on the side of caution. I caught the train to Bromley and headed out here with some of the local lads. Lucky for you that I did."

"And both Dr Watson and myself are heartily glad for your consideration," said Holmes with a brief smile, returning the penknife Lestrade had lent him earlier. "What news of my brother?"

Lestrade shifted uneasily. "Not good, I'm afraid. A body has been found matching Mr Mycroft Holmes's description."

"Where?"

"York. He'd had his throat cut. The local police are saying it was robbery gone wrong. They'd appreciate you going up there to identify the body."

Holmes nodded. "I may have time tomorrow."

"You don't seem at all surprised," Lestrade said, regarding him curiously.

"No, it had been suggested to me that Mycroft was dead. Inspector, do you have a trustworthy man at hand?"

"I can't speak for any of the locals, but I did bring Dawkins with me. Well, I didn't bring him so much as he insisted on coming," said he with a knowing grin in my direction. "He's an admirer of your methods, Mr Holmes. Heaven knows why."

"As long as he's capable of taking a message back to London, that is all the recommendation I require," said Holmes. "Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil?"

Whilst he was busy writing, two constables approached half-carrying, half-dragging between them the scowling, swearing, glaring figure of Hancock, now disarmed of his shotgun and clearly unhappy about his own situation and our survival. He uttered a foul oath when he saw us and spat at our feet.

"Charming fellow," murmured Holmes.

"Devil take thee!" Hancock bellowed.

"He'll have to wait his turn," said Lestrade. "Now, what's all this about?"

Hancock's lip curled. "Trespassers."

"What's that? Did I hear you rightly?"

"Aye. Caught 'em on my land."

The Inspector turned to us. "Is this right, Mr Holmes?"

He nodded. "Oh, yes. We were trespassing."

"Unintentionally," I added.

Lestrade's brows rose. "And is that what you usually do with 'trespassers', sir? Tie them up and leave them on the railway tracks?"

"Was their own fault. Shouldn't be nosing about in things that don't concern 'em. S'my land, I'll deal with 'em as I see fit."

"Your land, eh? And where would that be?"

"Farm over yonder," Hancock said grudgingly.

"The only farm in these parts is that of old man Rules," said one of the constables. "But he's been dead three year and more."

"Well, he weren't needing it!" their prisoner declared. "I 'aven't done nothing wrong."

"Except the attempted murder of these two gentlemen," said Lestrade. "Not to mention endangering the lives of the passengers of this train."

"This isn't the first time he's done this either," I spoke up. Holmes nudged me and shook his head.

"I was coming to that," said Lestrade. "Did you catch another man trespassing on 'your' land, a fellow by the name of Morris Carter a month back?"

The man's beady eyes glittered. "What if I did?"

"You might have heard, living locally, that he died here, on this very crossing, in similar circumstances."

Hancock chewed this over and spat his reply in Lestrade's general direction. "Trespassers be filthy scum, one and all. Got what he deserved, he did."

"Am I to understand that you admit to killing this man?"

"I didn't kill 'im," said Hancock, giggling. "Train did. He were still blinking even when 'is head was rolling about under the wheels."

One of the constables gagged. I turned away, unable to look another moment at that grinning, leering face. Nor could I shake from my mind the thought that but for Holmes's ingenuity and Lestrade's appearance, I could so easily have shared the unfortunate Carter's fate.

"I've heard enough," said Lestrade. "Get him out of my sight, constable." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "What a piece of work," he said with disgust. "I've met some in my time, but he takes the cake. It seems to me, Mr Holmes, that you and the doctor here have been fortunate in any event. He could have murdered you both up at that farmhouse and no one would have ever been any the wiser. Which reminds me, I'll have to send a couple of constables over there to see what he was so eager to hide." He glanced expectantly in our direction. "Unless you'd like to tell me?"

"Unfortunately I cannot," said Holmes, carefully folding the paper on which he had written his message. "I saw only the cellar."

"I met his wife," I said. "Be careful, Lestrade. She's not afraid to defend herself."

"Duly noted. I'll tell the Bromley lot to take precautions."

"I doubt you'll find either the wife or much else there," said Holmes. He nodded to a faint red glow far beyond the trees and fields in the direction from which we had come. "Whatever Hancock was hiding has been consigned to the flames."

He meant, of course, whatever _Styles_ had been hiding, but I saw no reason to tell Lestrade otherwise if Holmes did not wish me to do so. I had a moment of concern for Mrs Hancock, certainly more than she ever spared us, and consoled myself with the thought that she had most likely had a hand in setting the fire herself. Either Mrs Hancock or the men Styles had spoken of as being in his employ, the ones who had informed him of Mycroft Holmes's murder and who had provided the hansom in which we were to have met our deaths. I did not doubt that the police would find no trace of them. Nor would they get anything of their identity from Hancock, who it seemed to me was willing to embrace death than to betray the master who had left him behind.

What could inspire such loathsome loyalty was beyond my comprehension. Not financial gain, to judge from his straitened circumstances. Fear perhaps, but what worse than fear of the gallows? What fate was possibly worse than that of death?

If Holmes knew or suspected, he was not about to share his insight with me. Indeed, to my trained medical eye, far from being about to offer an explanation, he appeared to be struggling to stay up on his feet. And I was not the only one to have noticed his condition.

"Are you sure you didn't do yourself an injury in jumping from that wreck, Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked, gazing at him anxiously. "You've gone a queer colour, if you don't mind me saying."

His skin had the unhealthy robbed-out pallor of one on the verge of fainting. That he was upright at all was an amazement to me, given the strains and accumulated injuries of the day.

"Yes, I'm quite all right," he said, swallowing hard. "Did you say you had someone who could deliver a message?"

Whilst Lestrade went in search of Dawkins, I took the opportunity to assess his condition.

"How much blood have you lost?"

He grimaced. "Enough. Watson, promise me that if I pass out before Lestrade returns that you will ensure that this message makes it into the hands of the Prime Minister."

"I shall take if you wish."

"No! The gesture is appreciated, my dear fellow, but on no account must you deliver it in person. Should you present yourself at Whitehall, they would surely complete what they have failed to do here this evening. They may still attempt to do so when they learn of our survival. We are in mortal danger until the morning, Watson. For that reason, we cannot return to Baker Street. As for this message, I _would_ take it—"

"And run the same risk?"

He offered me a faint smile. "As much faith as I have in your abilities, I would hardly expect you to know from which direction a bullet might come. Styles did warn you that he was an expert shot. With so much riding on the Cabinet's decision this night, I would expect them to cover every contingency and have a man in position near or at Downing Street. You would not make it within 500 yards. As I was saying, I would take it, but I fear I would make a most ineffectual messenger in my current condition."

"What of Dawkins? Shouldn't you warn him of the danger?"

"Styles does not know him nor is aware of his association with us. He is in no immediate danger as long as he gives this to the Premier and no other." He paused and took a deep breath. "We should spend the night at a country inn. I am mindful that you have an appointment in church the day after tomorrow and still have much to do, but I must ask that you indulge me in this. Hush now."

He put a finger to lips as we saw Lestrade returning with the bright-eyed, sparsely-bearded young man I remembered from earlier.

"Constable Dawkins, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade. "You remember Dr Watson of course."

"Certainly I do," said Dawkins, beaming at us both. "Mr Holmes, this is a pleasure, sir."

He shook his hand with such vigour that I caught myself wincing at what must surely have been a painful experience for my companion. Holmes, however, was well practised at maintaining his composure and forced a smile, despite his discomfort.

"Constable Dawkins, if I were to tell you that the fate of a country and its people rests on your getting this message to a particular person, what would you say?"

His countenance sobered. "I'd say I'd be honoured to be entrusted with such a task."

"Then you are the very man we need." Holmes pressed the folded piece of paper into Dawkins's hand. As he did so, I noticed the fresh glint of blood on the already stained cuff that peeped out from under his coat sleeve. "This needs to reach the Prime Minister. Insist that you deliver it into his hands and his alone. Tell no one why you need to see him or, if pressed, invent some pretext, but do not mention this message. Do you think you will be able to do that?"

Dawkins stiffened to attention. "I believe so, Mr Holmes. You may trust me, sir."

"Capital! But, and heed this warning most carefully, you must promise not to trust anyone nor tell them that I sent you, no matter who they are."

"Not even if they're members of the government?"

"_Especially_ not if they're members of the government. Your life may depend upon your ability to keep this secret, Constable."

"Now wait a minute," Lestrade interjected. "If there's to be any danger to my officers, I think I have a right to know what this is all about."

"It's all right with me, Inspector," said Dawkins bravely. "I'm not worried."

"Nor will you be if you get your head blown off."

"There will be no danger as long as Constable Dawkins does exactly what I have told him," Holmes said patiently. "However, if you have any doubts—"

"None, Mr Holmes," said Dawkins. "You may depend on me, sir."

"Good. Then make haste."

"You can go with the wagon back to Bromley and get the train from there," said Lestrade. "Well, go on then. Don't stand there gawping, Dawkins. And just you remember to be careful, young man."

Dawkins grinned and raced away after the departing police wagon with its prisoner.

"I'm not happy about this, Mr Holmes," Lestrade said. "That message…"

"Better if you don't know, Inspector."

"All the same, by rights, if there's going to be trouble, it should have been me taking the risks. Dawkins is a pain in the neck some times, I'll not deny it, but he's got the makings of a fine officer, given time."

"And encouragement," said Holmes, smiling. "He should manage well enough."

"I hope so. The Chief Constable will have my guts for garters if anything happens to him."

Behind us, the train sent up a shrill whistle of readiness as the driver leaned out of his cab and called to the milling passengers to retake their seats. "All aboard what's coming aboard," he yelled.

"That sounds like an invitation too good to pass up," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, we have a train to catch. Good evening, Lestrade."

"You're not going back to London?" asked the Inspector.

"The hour is late and Watson needs his sleep. He is getting married on Thursday, you know."

We left him and the few remaining officers from the Bromley Division to await the arrival of the fire brigade and the return of the police wagon. Holmes was in no mood to talk during our journey and his interest seemed far beyond a contemplation of the lumps and mounds of the darkened countryside that flashed past our window. At Sevenoaks, he suddenly decided that we had gone far enough down the line and we alighted. The innkeeper at the suitably anonymous tavern we found in a back street was somewhat surprised to have two beraggled guests appear on his doorstep at so late an hour, but nonetheless he rose to the occasion and soon enough we had rooms and the offer of supper.

I was less concerned with food than Holmes's condition, which seemed to be worsening. Dark shadows hung under his eyes and his skin was so pale as to appear translucent. I urged him to let me treat his injuries, but he would have none of it.

"In the morning, my dear fellow," said he, yawning. "For now, I need my rest."

Tired he might have been, but I was determined to have my way in the matter of his health. I gathered what bandages our hose could find and returned to Holmes's room with warm water and towels. As ever, he had conspired to confound my good intentions. I found him curled up on his bed, still dressed and snoring softly into a pillow. Bowing to the healing properties of a good night's sleep, I pulled the blanket over him and left him to his slumbers.

Tomorrow, however, would be a different story. Come the morning, I would see to his injuries and then the journey to York, together. Impending marriage or no, if his brother was dead, then it was my duty to accompany him on that sad task of identifying the body. Nothing he could say would convince me otherwise.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Fifteen!**_


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Fifteen: Corpses and Churches**

I was awakened the next morning by a tugging at my shoulder to find Holmes at my bedside, alert, groomed and dressed in a suit of disreputable country tweeds.

"Do not rouse yourself on my behalf, dear fellow," said he in answer to my murmured inquiry. "I have only woken you to tell you that I am leaving for York."

"Leaving?" From what I could see through the chink in the threadbare curtains, the grey pallor of dawn still hung about the sky. "What's the time?"

"A quarter to six. The milk train departs in half an hour. Go back to sleep."

"Wait." It took me a moment to marshal my thoughts for the remnants of sleep clung stubbornly to my mind. "I'll come with you."

"Kind of you to offer, Watson, but no. You are to be married tomorrow and doubtless have many things which require your attention. Stay here until I have assured myself that it is safe for your return. I shall wire you on my arrival in town to let you know." He patted my arm. "Make the most of your one last day of bachelorhood."

"One last day to accompany you, then."

A fleeting cloud troubled his eyes. "I trust not the last."

It was far too early in the morning to be debating the subject. "I'm coming," I said firmly. "You can't stop me, Holmes. I'll follow you at a distance if needs be, but come I will."

My reward was the merest hint of a smile. "Then into your clothes and come. I'll wait for you downstairs. That is, if you are able to walk."

I was glad to report that the pain in my leg had subsided to a dull, if persistent ache. "An inconvenience, nothing more," I told him. "I am fit enough. Are you?"

"I am tired," said he unconcernedly, "and stiff in places too numerous to list. However, I am reliably informed that a brisk walk works wonders in loosening aching muscles."

"What of your fingers?"

"Still broken. I've bandaged them up as best I could."

"Not good enough, I dare say. Let me see to them."

"On the train, if you must," said he, with an airy wave of his hand. "Hurry yourself, Watson. If we miss this, another will not present itself for at least forty minutes."

After having had just over three hours' sleep, it was something of a miracle that I was able to locate my clothes that morning, let alone dress as swiftly as I did. As it was, I somehow managed to get my boots on the wrong feet and my trousers back to front. Fifteen minutes later, however, I was downstairs and gulping down tea provided by the innkeeper's wife before rushing out to join Holmes who was chafing with impatience at what he called 'my unnecessary delay'.

We made it to the station with two minutes to spare, found ourselves an empty compartment and took our seats as the train rumbled off on its journey to Charing Cross.

"I was wondering," I said as Holmes presented his bandaged hand for my inspection; "don't you think that this news about your brother could be a trap? We were led to believe he was deceased before and it proved otherwise."

"That had crossed my mind." He winced slightly as I peeled the bandage from his fingers. "What we really need is a morning paper."

I glanced at him questioningly.

"To confirm whether that young fellow Dawkins was successful in delivering my message," said he. "If not, then we have woken to a world teetering on the edge of chaos. The Prime Minister will be ousted and Rossdale will take his place as the puppet of Dr Styles's diabolical master. What then?" His gaze turned to the window and the scurrying views of the Kent countryside. "To look at this pastoral idyll, one would never guess at the ills that beset this nation. Nature is wonderfully reassuring, Watson; beside it, the petty concerns of man pale into insignificance. We are mere fleas on the back of a dog. We flourish, we irritate, but in the grander scheme of things we vastly overestimate our importance. The concerns of today are tomorrow's memories. What troubles us shall mean nothing to our grandchildren, and no bad thing that will be."

"_You_ plan to have grandchildren?" I chuckled. "My dear Holmes, now you surely jest."

"What do you find so amusing?" he asked coolly.

"Because you have assured me, not a few months ago, that you should never marry, lest it bias your judgement."

"I stand by that statement, although one never knows what turn one's future may take."

"Impossible!"

"Improbable, certainly."

"Holmes, you cannot marry."

"An interesting choice of words, Watson. The verb you have applied, apparently carelessly for one who should know better, implies an inability to do or perform a particular act. You appear to believe that I lack the ability to marry, whereas the opposite is true. That I _choose_ not to do so and very likely shall continue in such a vein seems to have escaped your notice. However, that is not what you meant."

"You make too much of a trifle, Holmes. I meant only—"

"That you would prefer I did not marry, yes, I am well aware of that."

I stared at him, aghast. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"Man's natural desire for a sense of permanence? Oh, I do not blame you. Even now, you shy from the prospect of what tomorrow may bring by insisting on accompanying me on this fool's errand. Put your reservations aside. You shall be home in time to be delivered safely into the arms of your patient fiancée on the morrow."

"I did not doubt that."

"Then what do you doubt? We all need reassurance; life would be intolerable if we had nothing stable on which we could rely. Change may come, but some things are rightly sacred. Empires may rise or fall, governments may come and go, indeed _you_ may marry, but I, like those cows in that field yonder or the daisies in the hedgerows, am to remain, enshrined forever at Baker Street, awaiting the sound of a client's foot on the stair, a pipe in one hand, my violin in the other."

"What nonsense," I said. "And you have the gall to accuse me of over-romanticising your cases!"

"If I employ your imagery, Watson, it is simply because that is how you seem to view our circumstances. Well, I shall endeavour not to disappoint. There you shall find me, at least until the necessity of retirement forces me to make other plans."

I scoffed at this. "You, retire? I find that even harder to countenance than this absurd talk of your marrying."

"You would prefer that I die in harness?"

I almost returned his smile until I realised how very close he had come to that fate in the course of the last few days. I did not know whether he had made that remark lightly, for Holmes's sense of humour has always been questionable at the best of times. It was sobering, however, to think how easily our parting might have become permanent.

Nor could I entirely deny that there had not been some grain of truth in what he had said. If I had pause, it was not that I doubted my reasons for marrying, but rather my own ability to balance my new life and my old. The prospect of never being able to accompany Holmes on a case again filled me with as much torment as the thought of ever bringing sorrow to that innocent soul who had done me the greatest of honours in consenting to be my wife. A middle way would have to be found, for the sacrifice of one for the sake of the other would grieve me more than words could say.

Not that I could bring myself to admit to Holmes that he had been right in his assumptions. If I had, he would never allow to me hear the last of it.

"You really do have some very strange ideas," I replied instead.

"That comes of having a highly-developed imagination, upon which I see that I shall have to rely for my amusement in the weeks ahead now that you have deprived me of the comfort of my music."

"Rather that than the alternative."

He frowned at his newly-bandaged hand. "I trust that I will be able to play again?"

"You should, given time and rest. The breaks were clean. What of your arm?"

"If you believe that I can be compelled to divest myself of coat and shirt in a second-class carriage of a London-bound train, then you are about to be disappointed. It is bad enough that I am forced to appear in this travesty of a garment without the prospect of losing it altogether. Still, I could hardly turn out in what was left of my own clothes. I am indebted to the innkeeper's wife for finding this suit, wretched though it is."

"Are you sure she didn't steal it from a scarecrow?" I said, good-humouredly.

"No, it is a gift from a former guest who had the misfortune to spend his last night on earth with our hosts. Now, if that is all, I trust you will not begrudge me a short nap. If today is anything like yesterday, I shall need all my wits about me."

I did not object, and indeed joined him in closing my eyes and losing myself in sleep. I awoke as the train pulled into Charing Cross, whereupon we alighted, stopping only to purchase that day's edition of _The Times_, and caught a cab to take us to King's Cross for our onward journey. Holmes buried himself in the appeals and advertisements of the agony column and very soon was chuckling with evident delight.

"Read that," said he, gesturing to an item halfway down the page. "There you may find something of interest."

"'_Sister_'", I read aloud. "'_Reading of the will went ahead. Dispersal of assets delayed as advised. No word from Mother. D._' Whatever does it mean, Holmes?"

"It means that our arrow reached its target. The stocks were not sold, which is just as well, as I notice that the situation has been clarified as regards the affairs of a certain South American country."

He took the paper from me, refolded it and indicated a small column of print.

"Far from being a revolution as reported, a day of national celebration was ordered following the confirmation of the discovery of gold in that region. We have our answer as to why it was impossible to establish contact. Securities are well on the way to realising their former price and may indeed offer substantial returns for those wise enough to have invested. The crisis is averted, and the grand ambition of our plotter and imitator of the schemes of Monte Cristo has been thwarted." He smiled. "The Premier has a sense of humour. You noticed he signed himself as 'D' for Danglars."

"And Mother?"

"That would be Mycroft – 'sister' as in Sherlock, naturally." He sat back and folded his hands on his lap. "If he has not made contact, even now, it means that I must allow the possibility that Mycroft's corpse does indeed languish in York. Oh, it is quite safe for you to return home, if you so wish. Styles will be too concerned with saving his own neck now to worry about wringing ours."

I had said I would accompany him, however, and by early afternoon we were again in the dank surroundings of a police mortuary, staring down at the sagging, greying flesh of a bloated corpse. A brown collar of withered, parted skin showed about the neck where the murderer had done his work, offering a glimpse of the severed yellowish-white pipes underneath, and the encrusted mouth gaped in the eternal, now silenced scream, which had marked his passing from this world to the next.

The process of identification did not take long. Even I could see that this aging fellow was not Mycroft Holmes, despite a similarity in height, weight and general appearance.

"Are you quite sure about that?" asked Mr Bickerdyke, a fairly bovine police inspector with fleshy jowls, dandruff-littered shoulders and a troublesome cough. "Only Inspector Lestrade said this here fellow was likely as not your brother."

"I am sorry that he has misled you," said Holmes.

"Not so sorry for me, sir, as this yon gentleman here. He'll need a name, but he had precious little on him to tell us who he was."

"He was robbed?" I asked.

"Of everything, Doctor. Picked clean he was, even of his clothes."

"He was naked when you found him, then?"

"Aye, Mr Holmes, that he was," said Bickerdyke, a flush of colour rising to his already florid cheeks, turning his face into a map of angry burst veins. "Fair gave the old woman who found him in the alley behind her house a turn it did. Said she had never seen anything like it—a dead man, I'm assuming she meant," he added with a chuckle.

"He was a barrister," said Holmes. "Not a native of these parts, most likely come to visit an ailing relation. You would do well to concentrate your inquiries in that direction, Inspector. As for his killers—"

"More than one, you say?"

"Most certainly. They had not enough time to search him adequately, and so stripped him of his clothes. A man alone would have had to trust that a rifling of his pockets would suffice."

"What were they looking for?"

Holmes shook his head. "When you catch them, you may ask them. The man who did the deed was shorter than the victim and left-handed – see how the cut to the throat is deeper at the right side where the knife was stabbed into the neck to sever the artery and then dragged across, turning down when it reaches the end here on the left."

"There is also this impression," I observed, lifting the skin to indicate a purplish mark beneath the chin. "It appears to be a peculiar type of knot-work pattern, possibly from a ring worn on the right forefinger, left when the villain pulled back his victim's head to apply the knife."

"Capital, Watson!" said Holmes, bestowing upon me a fleeting smile of approval. "The ring is surely distinctive, Inspector."

"Jim Ollerenshaw," said Bickerdyke, snapping his fingers. "'Gentleman Jim' they call him on account of his wearing a ring on his finger like he was some sort of toff. We've been after him for a goodly while, Mr Holmes. He makes a habit of never getting his hands dirty, but this time he's got careless."

"The best of us do."

"Oh, he's the worst, sir, so I'm obliged to you. Get the word out, constable. I want Ollerenshaw behind bars before nightfall." He surveyed my friend with eyes at once both awed and respectful. "I understand how you knew about the killer, Mr Holmes, but how the blazes can you be sure about the identity of this gentleman?"

Holmes smiled. "There is a short strand of coarse white hair embedded in the wax in his ear, Inspector, which allied with this powdery substance at his hairline, such as comes from the base of a wig worn by the judiciary, gives me a fair indication of his profession. A business associate would have met him at the station, as would a relative. That he was not suggests a family member who is ill. And no one but a stranger to these parts would allow himself to be directed to the unfamiliar streets where his murder then took place."

"So you say, Mr Holmes. How do you know he wasn't killed in his chambers and carried there?"

"Have you reports of a missing barrister in York?" Holmes asked tolerantly. Bickerdyke shook his head. "Then he is a stranger. As for carrying him to the place where he was divested of his clothes, how often have you observed the farmer drive his cattle to market rather than arrange transport for their carcasses from his fields?"

Bickerdyke tugged at his collar. "Seems pretty cold-blooded to me."

"As cold as the breath of the dead," Holmes agreed, sweeping the sheet back over the head of the corpse. "Well, we appear to have learned all we can here, and there is a London train leaving on the hour. I wish you the best of luck in apprehending your murderer, Inspector."

A thin sheet of rain was falling outside, carrying the odour of warm, damp earth, which was a tonic to the senses after the foetid atmosphere of the mortuary.

"I do apologise for dragging you half across the country, my dear fellow," said Holmes. "I fully expected Mycroft to put in an appearance by now, but still he eludes me. If not with the Prime Minister and out of his usual tracks, then where _is_ he?"

"He might simply be lost," I suggested.

"Lost!" Holmes gave a snort of laughter. "Like a bag left on a train, perhaps?"

"Or he may have come to York to inquire about your grandfather's contract with Mrs Harper and managed to evade the murderers sent by Styles. There is one way to be sure."

"Consult his solicitors. Yes, that thought had occurred to me." Holmes considered and came to a decision. "Go for lunch. I shall meet you at the station. If I am not there in time, leave without me. I will take the next."

I did not question his making inquiries without me; there are some areas of a man's life where angels and intimate acquaintances should fear to tread. I did wonder what I was to do with myself for the fifty minutes or so before our train left for London. I found myself a tea room in the shadow of the Minster and sat at a table in the window, picking over a cheese sandwich and watching the rain grow steadily heavier until the outlines of the great cathedral church appeared smudged against the greying clouds above.

Even taking my time over my lunch, I found myself with a little over twenty minutes on my hands. I could have taken a stroll, but quaint backstreets and medieval relics lose something of their charm when the rain conspires to creep down the back of the neck and water seeps into the shoes. Nor did I wish to tax my leg unduly, for a limping bridegroom does not inspire confidence.

As it was, I had already outstayed my welcome, and so I paid my bill and stepped out in the downpour. A cloudy-breathed carthorse stamped by, kicking up the puddles as it went, driven by a huddled, shivering man, his clothes black with water. I had no fancy to emulate his example, although I thought I must, until I caught the sound of voices joined in divine harmony coming from the Minster. Pulling up my collar, I hurried across the road and into the shelter of the porch.

Along with several other sodden orphans of the storm, I sought sanctuary amidst the ancient forest of lofty pillars that lined the nave. Grey light slanted through the traceried windows, robbing the gesturing glass figures of colour, and painting the ancient walls and clustered tombs in uniform drabness. The throbbing notes of the organ, coupled with the soaring voices of the choir joined in homophonic celebration, reached the high places and reverberated back like the rumble of the querulous clouds in the heavens above. I sat, quietly steaming, wondering what hymns Mary had chosen for the ceremony tomorrow and what she had made of my hasty telegram to tell her that I was unavoidably delayed.

Would she guess at the real reason for my absence? Probably, I thought, smiling. How many such telegrams she would tolerate in the future would depend upon the depth of her patience and to what lengths I was prepared to go to test her limits. Not too far, I promised myself, although how far that might be I had yet to discover.

"Are you troubled, my son?"

I glanced up to find that a cadaverous, black-clad clergyman, as ancient as his surroundings, had appeared at the end of my pew, his hands steepled in reverence and a kindly expression on his face.

"No, Father," I replied. "The weather proved inclement and I sought shelter."

"As do many who come to this place of worship," said he. "You are welcome to stay. God be with you, my son."

"And with you," I said to his retreating back.

Despite his offer, I felt I had delayed long enough. I made my way back to the entrance and paused to drop a few pennies in the collection box. As I did so, I was aware of the priest's return.

"Going so soon?" said he.

"I fear I must," I said, half-turning to the figure in black. "I have a train to catch."

To my horror, the face I saw was not that of my friend of earlier, but the contorted, snarling countenance of Dr Styles.

"First last night and now again, Dr Watson," he hissed. The blade of a knife glinted briefly in his hand before I felt its sharp point scrape against my ribs. "You appear to be making a habit of missing trains, sir. Let us see if we cannot rectify that situation."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Sixteen!**_


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Sixteen: Death in the Cathedral**

"Now, Dr Watson, you will come with me."

He attempted to make me walk, but I had no intention of going anywhere with Styles. A knife in the ribs might be considered to be a persuasive argument to the contrary, but I had other ideas. The cathedral, though sparsely populated at this time of day, not was a vile back alley where one might be quietly – or loudly, depending on the method – murdered unnoticed. The problem with that, however, was that one's continued wellbeing, and ultimately one's life, depended on how much damage might be done before someone came to investigate.

Perhaps rashly, I decided that I would prefer to take my chances.

"Foolish, sir, very foolish," said Styles when I refused to move. "Even a man of your limited intelligence must see that this obstinacy of yours can only result in your immediate demise."

"One word from me, Styles—"

He snorted. "A cry for help, perhaps? My dear sir, who would hear you above this ungodly _racket_?" He glared in the direction of the unseen choir, their voices rising and falling behind the stone Quire screen that served in the distant past to separate congregation from clergy. "Besides which," he added, "you would be dead before a word ever left your lips."

He nudged me with the knife to make his point yet more emphatic. Fresh to my mind came Holmes's assertion that Styles had no stomach for the more physical aspects of murder, describing his own treatment at this villain's hands as 'an act of sheer desperation'. Desperate he certainly was now, enough to contemplate murder in so public and sacred a place. Any squeamishness he might have had about plunging the blade into my side was forgotten. Far from going with him, I had to get away and quickly.

I relaxed just enough to convince Styles that I was about to comply with his demands, and then drove my elbow deep into his midriff. He groaned, buckled and the knife slipped from his hands. I was gone in an instant, forsaking the gloom of the aisle for the relative glare of the nave and the protection of others, reasoning that he would not perpetrate murder in the presence of so many witnesses.

But the scattering of souls who had been my companions in shelter had thinned in my absence; now there was only an old woman, her head bent in prayer, and a harassed lady with a gaggle of children, who were resisting her best efforts to teach them something of the lives of the massed stone saints. Behind me, Styles was back on his feet and making a determined advance in my direction. I saw immediately in what danger this innocent gathering would be placed by my actions. Even if I could make it through the gate to the choir, Styles might seize the opportunity of taking one of the children as hostage to aid his escape.

I diverted away from the women, edging my way along a pew with a sideways step, each conspiring to remind me painfully of yesterday's exertions, until I was back in the side aisle and heading for the north transept. I was aware that I was moving unforgivably slowly, but my aching leg had grumbles of its own. I tried to ignore it and pushed on regardless, into the transept where a door in a darkened corner led to what I hoped would be the outside world. I ran to it and tried the circular handle.

It refused to budge.

I tried again, out of sheer desperation throwing all my weight against it. Still it would not open. I had succeeded only in trapping myself between a locked door and a deranged villain with a knife intent on my murder. Even as yet another tug at the door handle proved futile, to my ears came the sound of hurried footsteps that slowed and came to a halt behind me.

"Where did you think you would go, Doctor?" Styles sneered, when I turned to face him. "Yet another failure notched up to _average_ intelligence."

"I should warn you," I returned, "whatever you intend to do—"

"I intend to kill you, you and your meddling friend. His brother too, if I can find the devil. Where _is_ he?"

He gestured at me with the knife. All I could do was to shake my head. We had had this conversation before, and I was still none the wiser as to where Mycroft Holmes might be found or what had happened to him.

"It matters not," said Styles. "I shall find him. It is redemption. It is the only way."

"What can you possibly stand to gain by this action now? Your scheme is known. Killing us will make no difference."

"I dare say you may be correct, Doctor, but I do not doubt that it will be immensely satisfying. But for you and Mr Holmes, today I should be a wealthy man. Instead I am reduced to the level of grovelling beggar!" His upper lip curled into a feral snarl. "Your interference, Dr Watson, has been my ruin. Now I shall be yours."

I hoped that if he came at me with the knife, I could manage to wrestle it from his hands. Styles, however, had other ideas. I saw his eyes light upon an oil lamp left on a ledge and, before I could put thought into action to halt his fledgling plan, he had seized it up and thrust it at me, forcing me further back into my corner.

"Dangerous places, churches," said he, grinning as he plucked a votive candle from a wax-encrusted stand. "The number of people who have been careless with flames is quite lamentable. One more to add to that number will hardly be noticed, I dare say."

Even my staunchest critic would not deny that I do not lack nerve, but I will not deny that a thrill of horror set my stomach to churning at the thought of what Styles intended. There was no way past him that did not put me within reach of both oil and candle. I could have almost wished that he had the audacity to come at me with his knife.

I had seen men die in fires before, and those who did not immediately perish survived but for a short, merciful time when death finally brought an end to their agonies. My only escape involved trusting to good fortune that I could rush him and wrestle the lamp from his hands before we were both doused in oil and joined in a fatal conflagration. It seemed I had nothing to lose, save my life if I remained where I was and did nothing while this villain consigned me to the flames. I backed up as far as I could, hoping I could gain enough speed and momentum to sweep us both clear of danger, and steeled myself for either freedom or a fiery death.

Before I could move, however, there came a crunching sound from somewhere above, of stone grating across stone. My gaze turned heavenwards as a fine spray of dust mingled with larger fragments rained down on us. Styles screamed, like the wail of the damned, lamp and candle now forgotten as he raised his hands to cover his head. A grey blur flashed before my eyes as the dislodged seraphim fell to earth from the parapet. The man's shriek of terror was swallowed up in the thud of stone tearing into flesh and the sickening snap of breaking bones. Stone shards scattered and a piece of broken wing took flight to end up at my feet. For that moment, the cathedral rang with a noise greater than that of the choir, and then all was silent.

As the dust settled, I saw that Styles had taken the full brunt of the impact. Rivulets of blood were following the cracks in the paving stones to pool in puddles around the body. His head was buried under the statue's torso and a fragment of a divine pipe had skewered his shoulder to reveal the white of the bone beneath. Mingled with the stench of death was the odour of spilt oil. Even as I watched, the candle flame caught and fed greedily on Styles's sodden clothes.

The sudden flare of the fire drove me back to find that the door had opened. The old clergyman I had seen earlier now grabbed my arm, intent on hauling me away from the burning body.

"Come, sir, you must leave," he urged.

"I cannot," I said. "I am a doctor. If I can help—"

"He is past the help of any man," said the priest. "You must come with me _now_."

He hauled me through the doorway with strength that I should not have credited a man of his age and feeble bearing. Slamming the door behind us, he led the way through the winding labyrinth of passages to a gate that led out to the outside world. Before I could object, he had hailed a cab and pushed me inside, telling the cabman to take me to the station.

"I should stay and explain what happened," I protested.

"It was an accident, sir. That is the only explanation. Ours is an old and venerable building, crumbling before our very eyes, alas! Put it from your mind, Dr Watson, now and forever."

With that, he nodded to the cabman. The whip cracked and we set off at a goodly pace through the streets, cutting through the medieval gateway of Bootham Bar with its twin hanging turrets, past the remains of a Roman fortress and the drooping ruins of St Mary's Abbey, and on across the river until finally we clattered into the station. Still dazed by this flurry of activity, I stumbled from the cab, which took off the second I was clear, and wandered into the ticket hall. My dishevelled appearance no doubt gave the other passengers some cause for speculation that day, but less so the figure I bumped into in my state of confusion.

"Watson, do look where you're going."

Holmes had appeared as if from nowhere, clad in a dark suit and with a package under his arm.

"My dear fellow," said he, eyeing my appearance critically, "whatever has happened?"

"Styles," I murmured.

"What?"

"In the cathedral. He's… he's dead, Holmes."

He dragged me to one side, away from the curious gazes we were attracting.

"Styles is dead? What happened?"

I took a deep breath and tried to steady my nerves. My hands still persisted in trembling, however, and I had to clench my fingers to bring them under control.

"I took refuge from the rain in York Minster," I explained. "Styles appeared, disguised as a priest. He said he was going to kill me. He said he was going to kill you as well, and your brother, if he could find him. He had a knife." I swallowed hard, trying to ease the dryness of my throat and the coating of chalky dust that had settled on my tongue. "I got away from him, but he came after me. He had an oil lamp and a candle. He said…"

"Yes, Watson, I can guess what he said. Go on."

"Then a statue fell. He was killed instantaneously. His clothes caught alight. I tried to help, but this old priest told me to leave. He put me a cab, told me that it was an accident and that I should forget what happened, and…" I gave a vague gesture to my surroundings. "Well, here I am."

Holmes's expression had been solemn while he listened to my tale. Now his grey eyes were alive with some deep emotion and his brow was wrinkled in thought.

"Yes, Watson, here you are, just in time for the London train," said he. "You have had a lucky escape."

"More like divine intervention."

Holmes shook his head. "No, the agency was very much human. This old priest, could you describe him?"

"He was old, stooped and grey. And extremely thin, as I recall. Other than that, I did not pay him much heed."

"That is where you erred, my dear friend. Undoubtedly this fellow had assumed a disguise."

"Why?"

"To kill Styles."

"To kill…" I stared at him. "You mean—"

"I hate to disillusion you, but your importance in the grander scheme of things is relatively minor."

"Thank you, Holmes," I muttered.

"No, it is not a criticism. Almost certainly it has saved your life. Styles's failure cost him dear. The same master he had served had turned his agents against him. This 'priest' was one of them. You are not seen as a threat. That is why you were allowed to leave unmolested."

"But if you right, a crime has been committed. I must go back and explain to the police."

"What will you tell them?" said Holmes as I started away.

"The truth. Styles threatened me with a knife and someone masquerading as a priest—"

"Of whom you can give the vaguest descriptions."

"That may be so, but it is possible that they could find him."

Holmes gave me a tight smile. "And while they search for a murderer who is long gone, they have your admission that you were present when Styles met his death in what might be called suspicious circumstances. You cannot even say that this man was responsible."

"According to you, he must have been."

"Did you see him push the statue? Then all we have is a plethora of surmise. I should say in all probability that he did the deed and then came down from the upper levels in time to send you on your way. No, Watson, your need for confession will serve no useful purpose. As accommodating as Inspector Bickerdyke was, I should not like to trust to his not coming to the conclusion that _you_ had a hand in Styles's death."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"The London train is due in one minute. I suggest we take it."

I held my ground. "Holmes, a man has died."

"A man who would have gladly seen you burn to death. I cannot say that I am particularly aggrieved that Styles has come to an untimely end. Moreover, you have been warned not to meddle, Watson. The next time, they may not be so considerate as to let you live."

"Warned?"

"Did not your priestly friend tell you to forget what had happened?"

I nodded.

"Then let the matter lie. Leave it as an accident. Justice has caught up with Styles and one day we may catch up with those who have dispensed it. However, this is not that day," said he, brushing the lingering traces of dust from my shoulders. "And you are to be married tomorrow."

Passengers started to jostle to the edge of the platform as the incoming train materialised from the veils of rain. Despite my misgivings, I saw the wisdom of Holmes's advice. We found ourselves a seat in the dining carriage and soon we were flying from York homeward bound while a waiter dispensed hot tea and set a loaded cake stand on our table. I watched as Holmes took it upon himself to ladle several heaped teaspoons of sugar into my cup, which he then pushed in my direction.

"Rather too sweet for my taste," I remarked.

"If we are to believe Mrs Hudson, nothing is more efficacious for ensuring a swift recovery from trying events than hot sweet tea. Drink, my dear fellow. Have you eaten?"

I had no appetite – my mind reeled and my insides were still too knotted to consider food. I did, however, sip the tea and felt my teeth begin to ache as the over-sweet liquid washed around the back of my mouth. I set down the cup and considered whether to mention something that had been preying on my mind. Deciding that it was better to know than not, I broached the subject as delicately as I could.

"How was your afternoon? Did you see the solicitor?"

"Yes," he replied absently as he inspected the sandwiches. "Mycroft had not been there."

"That is reassuring. At least you know now for certain."

He appeared unimpressed. "By that reasoning, all we have to do is eliminate every place Mycroft has _not_ visited in order to discover his whereabouts. Take heart, my friend, York is behind us, and we have _only_ the rest of the British Isles to investigate. That should comfortably take us several years, by which time Mycroft may have turned up in any case. Dear me, cucumber!" said he with distaste as he peeled back the top layer of bread of the nearest sandwich. "Even here, we are haunted by Mrs Hudson's social aspirations. Have they ever heard of ham or cheese on this infernal train?"

He threw down the sandwich in disgust, and I watched with some little amusement as he turned his attention to a plump scone and proceeded to worry at the raisins, extracting each in turn and setting them in a line around the edge of the cake stand.

"As I said from the first, Mycroft would not have come to York," he went on after a moment or two had lapsed. "He would have had little time for this talk of documents and contracts. I was bound to come here – one cannot rule out a theory unless it is subjected to the most vigorous scrutiny – although I fear what we have learned by this venture does not equal the energies we have expended."

His remark about the contract his grandfather was alleged to have made was telling. That it was on his mind told me that his inquiries at the solicitor's office had not been solely about his brother. It was not for me to pry, however, and I had other concerns.

"Then your interview did not take long?" I asked.

Holmes fixed me with a penetrating stare. "If you are asking if I found the time to disguise myself as an elderly clergyman and commit murder, then I fear I must disappoint you. Instead, I availed myself of a good tailor, who provided me with several new shirts and decent apparel. Although," he added, "had I seen your life threatened in such a manner, I dare say I would have been moved to such an act."

"Holmes, I never thought that for an instant!"

"Yes, you did. I saw your expression when you said the priest was excessively thin. You _thought_ it might have been me, but you had your doubts. Thus the reason for these seemingly innocent, but probing inquiries of yours. Come now, Watson, do not deny it."

I would hate to think that I wear my emotions so openly, but then Holmes has always had that rare ability of knowing my thoughts without my having to put them into words. In some respects, it was intrusive and irritating; in others, it was a boon, in sparing my embarrassment at having to broach so delicate a subject as this.

"It had occurred to me," I admitted.

"Of course it did, my dear fellow. However, there is a flaw in your reasoning. Did your priest have broken fingers?"

I thought back, and saw again the hands that had shut the cab door and had lingered long enough to imprint themselves in my memory. "No. But then you could have removed the bandages."

Holmes held up his own hand for my inspection. "You recognise your own handiwork, I trust? Well, then you shall find all as you left it."

I was satisfied on that account. However, that did not explain the anomaly that had given rise to my suspicions. "He knew my name, this priest," I said.

"Ah, you see the reach of this organisation," said Holmes, sitting back in his chair until it creaked. "They know all and they see all. And they have very tidy minds. No loose ends, Watson. Undoubtedly their eye had fallen on you. They were satisfied that you would not tell what you had seen or suspected, or perhaps they thought that I would convince you."

"As you did."

"Yes." He let the thought linger. "Had I missed you at the station, you would have fallen into no end of trouble. We must be thankful for the small mercies that life occasionally throws in our path. But for a matter of minutes, you might have been on your way to a fate worse than death rather than to London and your impending nuptials – although some might say they are one and the same thing."

I returned his smile. "But _who_ are these people, Holmes? You speak of them in the same terms as one might some innocent government institution."

"As rare as it is to hear the words 'innocent' and 'government' used in close conjunction, I cannot disagree with your statement. I should say that they are organised in very much the same way, with a chain of command from a leader to his subordinates. If it is ordered, that chain can be severed at any time. Hancock, Ollerenshaw and the others are mere minnows, so distant from the centre that they probably know as little about it as we do. But Styles was different. How high he had risen we shall never know, although certainly it was lofty enough for him to be considered a threat. I should have preferred that he had been apprehended – we could have learned much from him."

An expression of displeasure settled over his face as the scone with which he had been toying finally disintegrated.

"I have no liking for this meagre fare, and I find myself more fatigued than hungry. If you have finished, Watson, let us find ourselves a quiet carriage in which to while away the rest of this tiresome journey. We may have heard the last of Styles, but I doubt that this business is yet at an end!"

* * *

_**Yes, it's THAT organisation Holmes is referring to. Seriously, Dr Watson, don't meddle. Holmes knows what he's talking about even if you won't until FINA (let's leave VALL aside for the time being, Watson's memory isn't **__**that**__** bad).**_

_**Continued in Chapter Seventeen!**_


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Seventeen: Home to Baker Street**

It was early evening by the time we arrived back in London. A dank yellow fog was winding itself about the streets, clinging to the clothes and inveigling its way into open doors and windows. Baker Street was cold and uninviting, noticeably lacking the presence of its fiercest guardian, who, with neither word nor instruction from us about our return, was out attending to her own affairs.

Holmes muttered something ungracious about charity beginning at home and suggested that we dine out after availing ourselves of clean linen and a fortifying shot of brandy. A bath would have been welcome, but with no hot water and even less inclination to wander down to the local baths and expose ourselves to temperatures not to be undertaken lightly on empty stomachs and any number of undisclosed injuries, we settled for a splash of cold water, which removed most of the accumulated grime of the last few days and went some way to lifting the spirits.

I came down the sitting room to find Holmes sorting through the pile of correspondence that had amassed in our absence. Amongst mine, I found a letter from my builder, saying that there was now a problem with the roof, and a note from Mary, expressing her regret that I would miss the final preparations for the wedding. Rather to my chagrin, she had also added a reminder about the time of the ceremony and the location of the church. Since she knew I was not likely to forget, I gathered this was by way of a gentle rebuke.

I was not, therefore, in the best frame of mind when Holmes flatly refused my offer of assistance, lest of all in bandaging his arm, saying that I had caused him inconvenience enough to last him a lifetime by depriving him of the use of his left hand. I imagined that the truth was more that he did not wish to worry me further by allowing me to see the extent of his injuries, apparently not considering that ignorance would give me more cause for disquiet than enlightenment.

Certainly he was very much his old self, if still pale and wan, and I gathered that the sleep he had snatched on our journey from York had gone some way to keeping his constitution steady. That, and, I suspected, some little pain relief of which I neither disapproved nor begrudged him. I should have known better than to meddle, but my nerves were rattled and the thought that he might perish in my absence from lack of care and a doctor's attention drove me to address the matter with more determination than usual.

"Watson, you are worrying unnecessarily," said he.

"That is preferable to the alternative."

He eyed me curiously through blue veils of smoke. "Which is?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

There were times when I could have wished that he was less obstinate, especially in matters of his health. I told myself that he would not recklessly endanger his own life, but even the wisest of us sometimes make mistakes. And since he would not give way, I saw that I must.

"Very well, Holmes. I shall let the matter drop. However, promise me that if your condition does not improve, you will seek medical advice."

"If it will set your mind at rest, I agree. However, I would venture to suggest that your agitation this evening stems less from my condition and more from your own impending engagement on the morrow."

"I am not agitated."

He drew thoughtfully on his pipe. "You have near trampled that rug with your pacing. It adds little aesthetic value to the room, but it does serve a purpose, in which capacity I should like it to continue after your departure. As for myself, I am quite comfortable as you can see. A few bruises, a scraped arm and a broken finger or two are hardly the stuff of great drama."

"Drama enough if that wound of yours becomes infected."

"Watson, help yourself to a whisky and soda, and sit down. The excitement of the past few days has gone to your head and disturbed that admirable equilibrium of yours. Matters may not be as desperate as they appear."

His tone was firm enough to make me see reason. There was no arguing with Holmes when he was in this mood, and on this night, of all nights, I had no wish that we should part on bad terms.

As I dropped into my chair, he plucked a small packet from the assortment of letters and tossed it across to me.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Open it and see."

I tore away the wrappings and found within a dome-shaped box, plush with blue velvet. Inside that, on a cushion of cream satin was a patterned gold wedding band.

"The question of the ring was playing on your mind, was it not?" said he. "I had not forgotten, especially as your first had been good enough to stand between me and a bullet. I trust this replacement meets with your approval. I dare say it is not what you would have chosen, but the jeweller assured me that such designs are popular with young couples. Nor it is antique, but one must settle for what one can get."

"Holmes, this is…" Frankly, I was lost for words. The ring was exquisite, not like the inelegant lump of gold I had chosen. "Why, it is perfect."

A smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. "I am gratified to hear that you like it. And the inscription?"

I turned it to the light and saw inside the engraved initials and the date etched on the shining surface.

"I fear it somewhat lacks imagination," said he, "but it is often the case that the simplest sentiments are the best."

"It is more than I had hoped for. But the expense!"

"It cost me nothing."

"Holmes, really."

"No, it is the truth. If you would thank anyone, it should be Mr Handyman of Messers Handyman and Price. The bill was sent to him."

"Why on earth would he pay for the ring? And when did you arrange this?"

Holmes recharged his spent pipe and put a match to it. "Yesterday. Did you not wonder what I was doing in Hatton Garden before I was abducted and driven off to a cellar in Chislehurst?"

"Well, now you come to mention it…"

"My first port of call had been to Old Bond Street to see this Mr Handyman of yours. Like his namesake of my former acquaintance, I can only say that he has decidedly criminal tendencies which are most unattractive in a trusted family jeweller. How closely did you examine this ring he sold you?"

He took the battered piece of gold from his pocket and passed it across to me, offering his glass so that I could better inspect it. Bent and twisted thing that it was, it did not disguise the fact that in places the thin gold veneer had chipped away to reveal a rather less expensive metal beneath.

"Good heavens, brass!"

"He denied it, of course," said Holmes. "But one does not thrive in the jewellery business without being able to distinguish gold from plate. I told him that Goldsmiths' Hall was likely to take a severe view of his forging hallmarks and deceiving his customers in this way. However, I said that I was prepared to overlook the matter if he not only refunded your money and paid for a replacement, but gave me his firm assurance that he would never attempt to sell plated brass rings as gold in the future. I shall call in on him from time to time to ensure that he keeping his word, but I believe I have scared him into honesty."

"You should have reported him. It's outrageous."

"And turn him loose on another unsuspecting part of the country when he has served his time and paid his fine? Far better that he remains where I can keep a watch on his activities. He will not step far out of line with that particular Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. As for you, no harm has been done; indeed, one wonders if real gold would have been as effective as stopping Styles's bullet as brass. No doubt also you can find some use for the money you have been refunded."

"Yes, what with the expense of the house repairs and…"

I stopped as I remembered another more onerous and pressing debt that I had been warned was due today. It seemed a long time ago that I had been stopped on my way home in Bloomsbury by Bulstrode's hired bullies. If I had forgotten, however, I was sure they had not.

Despite all that happened, the cheque Holmes had given me on Monday evening was still in my waistcoat pocket when I hurried upstairs to check that I had not lost it. Cashing it had quite slipped my mind and I hoped that Bert and his friend might see their way to waiting until the next morning before resorting to violence. I say I _hoped_, because I saw that my absence from Baker Street that day may have led them to the conclusion that I had no intention of paying and was hiding from them. If so, when they did catch up with me – as I was sure they would – they may take a dim view of my poor excuse for not having their money.

A glance from the window reassured me that they were not loitering outside. The small figure that emerged from the drifting vapours of fog was not approached by over-sized ruffians and it was not long before I heard Mrs Hudson's key turn in the lock. As she entered, a police wagon pulled up outside and discharged a heavily-muffled man. I gathered we were about to have a visit from Inspector Lestrade, a fact soon confirmed when I saw him coming up the stairs.

"Cold night, Doctor," said he, attempting to disentangle himself from the scarf that was wound somewhat tightly about his neck. "Mr Holmes in, is he?"

I nodded and led the way into the sitting room. Holmes was still working his way through his correspondence, filing them as either irrelevant, which ended up on the fire, mildly interesting, which he pinned to the mantle, and of pressing importance, chief of which was a bill which I saw protruding from his pocket. So it was that after pleasantries and brandies, Lestrade had thawed enough to tell us the reason for his visit.

"I understand you went to York," said he. "The body – was it who you thought it might be?"

"My brother? No. Some other unfortunate."

Lestrade grunted. "Seems to be catching up north. There's talk about someone crushed to death by falling masonry in the cathedral.

"Dear me," said Holmes. "Accidents will occur in the most unlikely of places."

"That's what I tell the wife, but she never believes me." Lestrade paused to take another sip of his brandy. "She says things happen because people make them happen. Take that business in Holborn where that Mr Harper died. Turns out it wasn't negligence after all. Someone had cut one of the retaining ropes. Kids, probably, out for a laugh. No wonder the whole lot fell down. Which reminds me…"

He delved into his pocket and produced his notebook.

"We had a gent turn up today by name of Mr William Parks." The inspector grinned conspiratorially. "I'll wager you'll never guess what he wanted."

"News of his missing brother," said Holmes.

Lestrade's expression fell. "However did you know that?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "You speak of Harper in one breath and then say it is has reminded you of something else in another. What else could it be?"

"Well, yes, as you say, Mr Parks _was_ looking for his brother – rather I should say his _half_-brother, our Mr Swithin Harper. It seems he left home about a month ago and Mrs Harper was concerned that she hadn't heard from him—"

"I'm sorry, Inspector," I interrupted. "Did you say _Mrs_ Harper? He was married?"

"Indeed he was, Doctor. At least, that's the only one we know about so far. I dare say there's a few more 'Mrs Harpers' out there. He was quite a lad, by all accounts. Thought nothing of tweaking the rules when it suited him – and it certainly suited him where the ladies were concerned."

He chuckled, although I thought that Mrs Steggles, who had given Harper a substantial sum of money for a marriage licence, would have found the situation less than amusing. I thought too of poor Sally Crabtree at The White Swan and her hopes for the better life Harper had promised her, cruelly dashed now that the assignment he had said would make his fortune had proved to be his last.

Nor I was not surprised to hear that his death had not been an accident – many lives had been touched by the machinations of this 'organisation' Holmes had spoken of and few had emerged unscathed. For those of us who had lived to fight another day, I supposed there was something to be said for being relatively unimportant in the grander scheme of thing.

"Did Mr Parks tell you anything about his half-brother?" Holmes asked. "An explanation, for example, for his presence in London?"

"Harper was an actor, according to what Parks told me, and a good one, but he had a liking for drink and, well, as we've found, the ladies. He moved about a lot to avoid his creditors and had temporary lodgings with his wife in Newcastle. The family comes from Carlisle originally – that's where his father met Harper's mother. When the old lady was dying, she told Harper that his real father hadn't died like she'd been saying for years, but that she'd been paid to go away because the man was about to get married and his family didn't want a scandal. After that, Parks said his brother became obsessed with finding out who his real father was. He said he suspected that was the reason for Harper's going to London, although he never said for certain."

"An unhappy tale," said I. "Why did his mother never name the father and spare him the agonies of not knowing?"

"That would have been the sensible thing to do, Doctor, but if people did what was sensible, you, I and Mr Holmes here would be out of a job. Parks said Harper tried to make him tell her before she died, but she said that she had loved the man and never wanted disgrace to fall on his good name."

"If she had loved him as much as she claimed," said Holmes suddenly, "then why did she leave? It is a curious kind of love that can be swayed by mere financial inducement."

"Perhaps she was attempting to provide for her child," I suggested.

"If so, then she would have insisted upon marrying the father. The family threatened to cut him off and leave him penniless, no doubt. There is no romance in poverty, Watson, whatever the shilling shockers might say."

"Well, whatever the reason," said Lestrade, snapping his notebook shut, "that's the end of the matter as far as I'm concerned. Personally, I'd still like to know why he had your brother's watch in his pocket."

"Stolen and sold on?"

"I expect so." His tone suggested that he thought that about as likely as our explanation for the events at Chislehurst the previous night. "You'll be pleased to hear that Dawkins delivered your message without incident, by the way."

"So I gathered."

"In fact, he did so well he's got promotion of the back of it. Posted to Downing Street, no less!" He sighed and shook his head. "I said I should have been the one to take it."

"Take heart, Inspector," said Holmes. "It would have been a criminal waste for a man of your energy and experience to spend his time shadowing ministers and diplomats."

"Kind of you to say so, Mr Holmes, but all the same the increase in wages would have come in handy. And I wouldn't have said no to a new office." He finished the last of his drink and rose to his feet. "Well, I'd best be making a move. If I turn in again as late as I did last night, I'll never hear the end of it. Congratulations for tomorrow, Doctor. I hope all goes well for you."

"We'd be pleased if you could come," I said, shaking his hand.

Lestrade brightened, as though he had been waiting for an invitation all along. "I dare say I could find time in the morning. I could bring along a few of the lads too."

"As long as they're not in uniform," said Holmes, tearing open another of his letters. "There is nothing more distracting for a vicar than the thought that half the congregation is about to be arrested. Upon my word!" Whatever it was that had caught his attention in the letter he had been reading suddenly made him laugh. "Why, this is quite remarkable!"

"Anything of interest, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade expectantly.

"No." He was struggling to contain his amusement as he screwed the letter into a ball and tossed it onto the fire. "Simply one of those whimsical happenings that is wont to occur from time to time."

"Well, in that case, I'd better be going. I'll see you tomorrow, Doctor."

In the time it took me to show him to the door, Holmes had gathered up his hat and coat and was urging me to follow his example. This sudden haste I imagined had been produced less by his desire to dine, as he claimed, and more by the news contained in the now incinerated letter. My suspicions were confirmed when he explained that we would have to make a short stop on the way.

What I did not anticipate was that the stop would be at the Diogenes Club. Nor did I expect to find myself very soon after in the Strangers' Room sharing the fireside with the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Eighteen!**_


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Eighteen: The Reappearance of Mycroft Holmes**

"Mycroft, you owe us an explanation."

Sherlock Holmes was clearly not amused. I understood what had prompted his initial outburst of laughter when he had read the note from his brother asking him to call at the Diogenes, but any humour in the situation had long since deserted him. In those few moments at Baker Street, I had been party to all I was ever going to see of any trace of emotion regarding confirmation of his sibling's survival.

To listen to the brothers now, with one restlessly pacing about the room, his expression simmering with a superior sense of indignation, and the other sat tight-lipped in the chair opposite mine, one would have supposed that nothing more extraordinary had occurred in the last few days than a minor disagreement. That one had been thought dead and the other near murdered in pursuit of the truth would have been almost impossible to believe.

In such cases, when one finds oneself caught between two warring factions, I have always thought it best to sit tight and judiciously exercise what Holmes has described as 'my grand gift of silence'. Besides, there was very little I could add to the discussion, and I gathered that my presence was serving to prevent the scene deteriorating into unpleasantness. Holmes, when his blood is up, is not a man I should like to cross, although his brother seemed singularly unimpressed.

"Sherlock, keep your voice down," said he with annoyance. "Such unnecessary noise at so late an hour is exceedingly vulgar. Have you _any_ idea what the time is?"

"Yes, I am well aware of it. I am also aware that I have spent the last few days following your trail up hill and down dale, was told that you were dead _twice_, have been shot at, run down, and ruined several good shirts in an attempt to discover your whereabouts – only now to discover that here you are, snug in the Diogenes Club! Have you been here all the time?"

Mycroft Holmes sniffed and steepled his fingers on his broad chest. "I have not."

"Where then?" Holmes demanded.

"That is of little consequence when set against what I _should_ have been doing had I been here!"

"Which I have had to do in your stead."

"And made a pretty mess of things, Sherlock. Really, if you intend to meddle in affairs of state, you should temper that predilection of yours to say the first thing that comes into your head. The Chancellor was keen to have me arrested, did you know that?"

"He might have mentioned it, yes."

"And I hear that you had some upstart of a policeman haul the Prime Minister out of his bed on some errand of yours. How do you explain this?"

Holmes regarded his brother coldly. "I did what was necessary to prevent a crisis."

"No, you acted with your usual sense of melodrama. No doubt you got yourself run over by a cab because you thought it would add a further touch of the dramatic to the proceedings."

"Mycroft, your sympathy overfloweth."

"Do not be facetious, Sherlock, it does not suit you." He waggled a podgy finger at him. "The Premier is not to be manhandled by spotty youths working to your instructions. If the message was that important, you should have taken it yourself."

"Yes, it was most remiss of me," he retorted, his tone archly sarcastic. "The fact that I had my own and Watson's life to consider should not have held me back as it did."

As if registering my presence for the first time, Mycroft smiled genially in my direction. "Do excuse us, Doctor," said he. "This is a slight difference of opinion, nothing more. I trust you haven't been too inconvenienced by my brother's dramatics?"

"Not at all, Mr Holmes. I am glad to find you safe and well."

"Safe, sir, but well is a matter of opinion. The last few days have been a trial, and my constitution is still suffering from the strain. Perhaps if you could recommend a tonic—"

"The best tonic, so I have been reliably informed," Holmes interjected, "is a clear conscience. Why don't you put that theory to the test and try for an explanation?"

Mycroft Holmes glowered, muttered something under his breath and with a sigh of resignation finally condescended to enlighten us.

"Very well, since you would have it," said he. "If you must know, Sherlock, since Monday evening I have been detained in Glasgow."

Holmes stared at him. "Glasgow? What the devil were you doing there?"

"It was less by choice and more by unhappy chance." He pursed his lips. "Do sit down. If am I to tell it, I would be less distracted by this restless wandering of yours." His features relaxed somewhat when Holmes pulled up a chair near the fire. "Well, then, on Monday last, I received a letter," Mycroft Holmes went on. "With it was a document touching on a family matter."

"This one?" Holmes produced the contract Honest Dick, the private inquiry agent, had given to me.

"Yes, yes, quite so. You were sent this?"

"No, it came into my possession by other means."

"A pity. I would have preferred to have dealt with this matter myself and not to have involved you."

"So I gathered, from your failure to inform me of what you intended."

"You have a habit of being awkward about such things, Sherlock. You would not have understood."

"I still do not, but go on."

"So disturbing were the implications of this document that I was bound to expend some energy in pursuing the business. I could not trust to a wire, so I decided to take the train that very same morning to York. At least, that was my intention when I set out."

"Did it not occur to you that your absence would be marked?"

Mycroft Holmes sniffed with an air of self-importance. "Naturally it did. That is why I sent word to the Home Secretary, informing him that I was indisposed."

"Lord Rossdale?" I said incredulously, unable to help myself.

"Indeed, Doctor. Knowing what I have learned since my return, I see now that I misjudged the man." His gaze turned to his brother. "You have seen the evening press?"

I was not surprised when Holmes pushed the newspaper in my direction. I soon found the relevant article: the headlines told of the tragic demise of Lord Rossdale, and the piece went on to describe how he had met his death.

"Killed after falling from the station platform at Waterloo into the path of an oncoming train," I read out, letting the paper slip to my lap. "Good heavens."

"For 'fall' you may read 'pushed'," Holmes said. "I did tell you, Watson. No loose ends."

"It is a shocking waste," said his brother. "He was a man of keen intellect and considerable talent. That he should have allowed himself to become embroiled in this affair is beyond belief."

"No more so than the improbability of someone being able to impersonate you, Mycroft. We may assume that our Mr Harper was tutored by Rossdale. Once they knew you were out of the way, they put their plan into action. Then, after he had served his purpose, he was removed, as would you have been had they caught up with you."

"I must consider myself fortunate then that I did not alight at York," Mycroft Holmes. "I have always been a poor traveller, which is why I endeavour to travel as little as possible. However, one would think that in this day and age when a request is made to be woken at a particular station that one might reasonably expect it to be carried out to the best of the guard's ability. Instead of which I woke with a start of my own accord to find the train pulling into Edinburgh! I attempted to return the way I had come, only to be sent to the wrong platform by a fool of a station master. I ended up in Glasgow and faced the prospect of a two-hour wait for my train. I went in search of refreshment after my trying journey, only to find myself in a disreputable part of town, where I was promptly relieved of my valuables."

Holmes was attempting to stifle a laugh. "My dear Mycroft."

"It is not in the least amusing," said his brother tersely. "For what happened after that was the most disagreeable experience of my adult life." A grimace formed on his face at the memory. "I went in search of a policeman to report my loss. Instead I found myself outside a low tavern in a vile alley. My thought was to ask for directions, but as I opened the door a chair flew out and took my hat with it. Several drunken men came tumbling after and I was soon in the midst of a brawl. The next I knew a policeman had appeared and I was charged with affray and being drunk and disorderly. I spent the night in the police cells before being hauled up before the magistrate the next morning. The man was a senile, inebriated old fool, that much was certain. As I had no money either to pay the fine or to send a telegram to request funds, and as I had no one to vouch for me or my good character because no one knew where I was, I was sentenced to two nights in prison so that I might – in the words of the magistrate – 'consider my conduct'."

I am sorry to say that the comical aspect of Mycroft Holmes's plight entirely got the better of his brother. While I had bit my lip and tried to maintain my composure, Holmes had burst out into a roar of laughter.

"Forgive me, Mycroft," said he, struggling to get his breath. "Do you mean to say that while you have been sought the length and breath of the country by myself, the police and other agencies less well meaning, you have been languishing in a Glasgow gaol?"

"Indeed, brother. I was only released this morning. Gruel, straw mattresses and rats for company! I ask you, Dr Watson, have you ever heard of so great an indignity?"

"That indignity has saved your life," said Holmes, suddenly sober as he rose to his feet. "You may be sure that had you not overslept, your reception in York would have even less hospitable than that you received in Glasgow."

"They do say that Providence watches over certain of us, although one might have wished for a more comfortable alternative to death than prison." He considered and glanced up at his brother. "You went to York?"

"Yes, we did. A man who was mistaken for you was murdered. They asked me to identify the body."

"While you were there, you visited our grandfather's solicitors?"

"Naturally."

"And?"

"Would you like me to leave?" I suggested, half rising from my chair.

"Not at all," said Holmes. "There is nothing I have to say which would not bear your hearing. The solicitor who would have dealt with the affair died some ten years ago, and a number of his files have gone missing in recent years, this among them. They said that the document _appeared_ to be in order, but that they could not state with any degree of certainty unless they had sight of the original, which would have been in the possession of their client."

"Ah." Mycroft Holmes nodded. "Then it is impossible to say. Our grandfather had a horror of blackmail," he said, directing his remark to me. "He took to burning his paperwork on a regular basis. He was a _little_ eccentric in that respect."

"It would appear to be a family trait," said Holmes. "As for this…" He took the contract from the table, considered it and then consigned it to the flames. The parchment caught, causing a sudden flare, which cast his face into a hectic _chiaroscuro_ of light and gloom. "That is an end of the matter. Let us not speak of this again."

His brother slowly shook his head. "Sherlock, if you only knew—"

"I know better than to be deceived by such nonsense," said he. "Come, Watson, we have delayed long enough. Good evening, Mycroft."

We paused outside the club to pull on gloves and button our coats against the thickening pall of fog. Holmes's earlier enthusiasm for our evening's venture seemed to have deserted him, and he appeared tired and strained. In view of the day that lay ahead, I wondered if it was not better to forsake our meal and return home.

"Certainly not," said he. "Simpson's is but a short walk from here."

"Walk? In this fog?"

He glanced up at the drifting vapours. "It is not so bad. If we step out, we should be there in no time at all. Come, my friend," said he, taking my arm, "even condemned men are permitted one last hearty meal."

In terms of distance, it was a small matter of making our way across Trafalgar Square to the Strand and the restaurant that lay some little away along that thoroughfare. In the dark, however, with the fog like the cold breath of the dead biting at the back of one's neck, everything changes. The boundary between pavement and street ceases to exist. Sounds echo with no discernible indication of direction. Buildings transform into faceless edifices, stripped of identity. In the grip of a London peculiar, the city becomes a world of strange shapes and sinister aspect, as foreign to the hardened town-dweller as the surface of the moon.

I had a vague sense of where we were going when we skirted Landseer's great lions with their cat-paw feet at the base of Nelson's Column and finally knew we were on the right track when the lights of the Grand Hotel winked through the yellow haze. There were few souls in the Strand and occasionally a hansom drifted by. It was only after we had put the Charing Cross Hospital behind us that the impression came to settle over me that we were not alone.

It was the merest tap of a footstep that first alerted me. What I had dismissed as dislocated sounds earlier were now drawing closer and with more determination. I dared not look round. Not that I needed to do so to know to whom those feet belonged.

Mr Bulstrode's hired bullies had finally caught up with me.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Nineteen!**_


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Nineteen: Dr Watson's Dilemma**

It is frequently the case that the most obvious solutions are the best when faced with an awkward situation. I was still limping from the day's exertions and the thought of having to run at the sort of speed needed to elude two slogging ruffians made me wince. Confiding to Holmes my predicament would, I felt sure, result in his declaring that we should tackle the problem head on. Were it any other day, I should have rated our chances quite highly, but neither of us was in the best condition and ultimately a fight would not solve my problem. Indeed, I have often found a broken nose and bleeding lip often serves to aggravate the situation.

I saw that I was going to have to invent an excuse and hang back while Holmes went on ahead to the restaurant, leaving me to deal with my profligate brother's debts. As we were near the hospital, a call on a colleague might suffice and satisfy any suspicions on Holmes's part. Quite what I thought I was going to do when I had to admit to Bert and his friend that I would not have the money until the morning, I had not considered. Honesty has its limits after all, and I wondered what Mary would have to say my appearing at the church the following morning with two black eyes.

As luck would have it, I never had to discover the answer to that. Holmes tugged on my arm and diverted us down Adam Street, taking a sharp left into a road lined with Georgian red-bricked terraces, named after the ducal families whose mansions had once stood on this land next to the river, now forced back beyond the Embankment Gardens.

"Do not look now," whispered Holmes, propelling us along at a speed which I feared was neither good for my aching muscles or his beleaguered constitution. "But I believe we are being followed."

We rounded the corner into Villiers Street, where the dark shape of a train rumbled slowly overhead on its journey into Charing Cross station. In spite of the noise, I could make out the sound of footsteps still trailing some way behind us.

"As I thought," said he. "They have been following us since we left the club, which presents us with something of a problem. You cannot run and I cannot carry you; neither can we stand our ground. Discretion being the better part of valour, I suggest we lose ourselves in a crowd."

He diverted towards the flickering lights of a public house set below the shop of a purveyor of wines and spirits. We descended steps into a cellar that smelled strongly of spilled beer and candle grease, and was so dimly lit that each face appeared as if a skull with eyeless sockets. Surprised by our appearance in what might at best be described as the sort of low drinking establishment of the variety where Mycroft Holmes had met with flying chairs and street brawls, the gathering of cloth-capped men, hard-eyed sailors and faded women paused to stare us with an intimidating mix of suspicion and hostility.

If Holmes imagined that this hardened band of drinkers would offer any protection against Bulstrode's hired thugs, then he was about to be disappointed. I imagined that far from coming to our aid, many of them would throw themselves into the affray with relish. I saw our night's adventure ending in bloodied noses and arrest, much the amusement of the Metropolitan Police and Scotland Yard, who would have to deliver the groom to his wedding in a police wagon and leave tongues wagging in the neighbourhood for many weeks to come.

I did not see how this dire was to be avoided or delayed for much longer, for the sudden swirl of wind that sailed around my legs told me that our two burly pursuers had followed us.

Perhaps the combined effects of two days' uncertainty, near brushes with death and manipulation at the hands of the undefined criminal organisation Holmes had spoken of had made me jaded. Certainly I was tired, hungry and lacking in faith. I had steeled myself for an unpleasant scene and yet a moment later I found myself not fending off blows and fists, but a riot of good wishes.

"Ladies and gentleman," Holmes had suddenly announced to the gathering. "My friend here is to be married tomorrow and he wishes to celebrate. Barman, a drink for everyone!"

The effect could not have been more pronounced had he intoned some arcane and mystical incantation. We were pushed forward by the eager throng and pressed against the bar. I felt sure I should vanish under the sea of hands that slapped me on the back, while from somewhere to my left appeared a woman with drooping flowers in her hair who gave me an impertinent kiss on the cheek and wished me all the best with a breath heavily-scented with cheap gin.

The barman was overwhelmed with clamours for whiskies and beers, but not to the extent where he was not able to snatch up the five pound note Holmes offered in payment.

"Is there another way out of here?" Holmes asked.

A thumb was jerked in the direction of a stained curtain that hung limply before a doorway. I was dragged through the crowd – to say I walked of my own volition was something of an exaggeration – and out into less oppressive atmosphere of the foggy night.

"That should keep them busy," Holmes told me with a triumphant grin. "By the time they realise we have gone, we should have been able to find ourselves somewhere rather more comfortable to rest our weary bones."

We wended our way beneath the iron struts of the railway bridge and out into Northumberland Avenue. A number of hansoms boasted drooping, dull-eyed horses with steaming breath standing together around a cabman's shelter, against which leant their drivers, drinking hot tea and studiously ignoring us in favour of the promised fare of frying bacon and sausages that was nectar to the soul of a hungry man, even laden as the scent was with that of rancid fat.

I was all for offering one of them a decent fare, over the odds if necessary, to take us back to Baker Street, but Holmes would have none of it. A short walk brought us to the Northumberland Hotel, where we threw ourselves on their mercy as two limping, hungry escapees from the fog and inquired if the restaurant was still open for supper. The clerk behind the desk appeared unmoved by our plight and informed us that as the chef had closed the kitchen for the evening we would be better advised to try elsewhere. Fortunately a senior member of the hotel staff who knew Holmes by sight took a more sympathetic view of the situation and assured us that he 'do what he could by way of sandwiches' for his distinguished guest.

So it was that we were directed to the hotel's comfortable armchairs, and soon after were sipping strong coffee and dining on chicken and beef sandwiches, glad to be out of the fog and free of our pursuers' less than amiable intentions. I ate sparingly, mostly to keep Holmes company, for my stomach was churning and my nerves were on edge. Every time the door opened, I glanced round, expecting to see Bert and his friend, intent on extracting their money from my person if necessary. I fear I breathed too many sighs of relief that night not to alert my keen friend that all was not well.

"It is not quite what I had envisaged for this evening," said Holmes after we had made short work of our impromptu repast. "I had hopes of a grander meal than this. However, I suppose it is in keeping with the general mood of the last few days. By the way, who are they?"

His sudden question and air of expectation forced my wandering attention back to the conversation.

"Those men who were following us," said he when I asked him to repeat his question. "It was you they wanted, Watson."

"Why do you say that?"

He helped himself to a cigarette. "Any interest a pair of ruffians like that would have in me would be connected with a case. Since our most recent has been concluded and I have nothing pending, I must draw the conclusion that for once, I am not their intended victim. I look, therefore, to you, my friend, and find that are as nervous as blushing maiden at her first ball. You expect them to appear at any moment. Moreover, this behaviour indicates that you are well aware of who they are and what they want."

I sighed and nodded.

"As I thought," said Holmes. "My dear fellow, you never cease to amaze me. You have the ear and ready intelligence of the country's foremost consulting detective at your beck and call, and yet you have been endeavouring to grapple with the most elementary of problems alone that together we might answer in no time at all."

"You _have_ helped," I admitted. "It is my own fault that I find myself pursued."

"Because of your failure to cash _this_?"

He had produced a piece of paper from his pocket, which looked very much like the cheque for £100 he had given me a several days before, and dropped it on the table between us. Alarmed, I patted my own pockets and found that the cheque was indeed missing.

"It is to settle a debt incurred by your late brother, no doubt," said he.

I did not know how he had discovered my secret, but since he knew, there was little use in denying it. I gave him the barest of details: my encounter with the two hired thugs in Bloomsbury on the same day I had seen the Mycroft-imposter, Mr Harper, embracing Miss Crabtree with the flaming hair, of the debt Harry had run up in Aintree and how, in his stead, I was expected to meet Mr Bulstrode's demands. It was a sorry state of affairs, made infinitely worse by my having to admit as much to Holmes.

"I did not mean to deceive you about the reason I needed the money," I concluded.

"As I recall," said he, drawing on his cigarette, "I did not ask and you did not say."

"I could not."

"Because you thought I might refuse?" He shook his head. "Come now, Watson, I should hope that after all this time you know me better than that. I had already deduced that it was something touching on your unfortunate brother. You have had many debts these last few weeks, but I know you are not so absent-minded as to overlook such a large sum against your name. Therefore, it had come upon you suddenly. I discounted blackmail, for I never saw any man less capable of an indiscretion than you. I also took into consideration your hesitation at asking and your embarrassment thereafter. What else can produce such an effect in a man but the concerns of family? Elder brothers, it would seem, were invented with the sole purpose of bringing grief to their younger siblings. It is a common lot we share in that respect."

I smiled despite myself. "I should have confided, but I thought that you might not understand."

"That appears to be a misconception shared by other people, Mycroft chief amongst them, whereas the opposite is almost certainly true. Nor am I in a position of giving myself virtuous airs when I find that I have called upon your time of late in search of a brother who, far from being in peril of his life, was, as you rightly speculated, simply lost."

"Like a bag left on a train, I think you said."

"And in jest!" said he. "Little did I realise it at the time how accurate that remark would prove to be. There is no denying, Watson, that there is something to be said for the triumph of common sense. Whilst I have imagined Mycroft falling into any number of unspeakable situations, you, my uncomplicated friend, were able to divine the truth of the matter. But Glasgow! I would never have thought to search for him there. We must hope that his experience will teach him against such folly in the future. As should yours in imagining that I would be indifferent to your plight."

"All the same, it did not sit well with me, having to ask you for such a sum. I had no one else to turn to at such short notice. I fully intend to repay you."

"No, the insult would be too great to bear. Given the innumerable dangers to which I have exposed you over the last few days in pursuit of my own family concerns, I should say that £100 is small recompense. If I have forced your confidence in extracting this cheque from your pocket, it sprang only out of concern for your safety. I wished to know what danger you faced. That is why I suggested we walk to the restaurant."

"You mean to say that you knew they would be waiting for me?"

He nodded. "I noticed two men loitering in a doorway at Baker Street on our return earlier today. That they did not venture to come up to our rooms was suggestive. Clearly their business was with you, for the reasons I have already described, and was of such a nature that witnesses were not desired. I was certain that they had followed us to the Diogenes Club, by which time I was resolved to put an end to the situation by offering them the opportunity to show their hand."

"Then what should I do?"

Holmes extinguished the remains of his cigarette and regarded me frankly. "Why, pay them, of course."

I stared at him.

"My dear Watson, there are some things that simply must be faced. By any normal rules, your brother's debts, barring those owed to his tailor, should have died with him. Your Mr Bulstrode seems to me the sort of man who does not abide by the 'normal rules', however. We could warn off these thugs of his, we could inform the police as to his activities, but sooner or later, he will want his due, even if he has to extract it from your hide. Pay him. Be done with the fellow and marry without the weight of this hanging over your heads. Young couples have trouble enough of their own making without having villains breathing down their necks."

"Well," said I, somewhat bemused after hearing this statement, "I must confess I am somewhat taken aback by your suggestion."

"You thought I would recommend that we teach those thugs a lesson they would not soon forget and send them on their way?" said Holmes with a chuckle. "That is because you harbour excessively romantic notions against which I have occasion to warn you in the past. By contrast, my nature has always tended towards the practical. Violence begets violence, and what cannot be avoided is the fact that you no longer have only yourself to consider, but the safety of the lady who is soon to become Mrs Watson. The sum demanded is as nothing compared to that. Mr Bulstrode shall soon feel the hand of justice upon his collar, you may depend upon it, but not at the expense of your wellbeing. Since it is the duty of the best man to defend and protect the groom and by extension the bride also, it would be unconscionable if I allowed harm to befall either of you."

His words caused a grudging smile to tug at my mouth. As usual, he was correct, although I foresaw one flaw in his plan that he had not considered.

"I do not know where to find them," I said. "Nor do I have the money to hand."

"I believe we shall find them waiting outside. I made sure that enough people saw us to be able to direct them to our present location," he explained when he saw my expression. "As to the latter consideration, that is simple enough. I shall simply make the cheque out to cash and they may draw it whenever they see fit."

With that, he rose, took the cheque to the desk where he borrowed a pen from the clerk, and, having made the necessary alteration, returned it to me.

"Shall we go?" he suggested. "Once we have dealt with this debt, let us make for home. The hour is growing late and a trying day lies ahead of us."

I did not argue with that sentiment. I had not felt so weary since the early days of our association, when I had passed many hours unable to do much more than read the papers and observe the somewhat eccentric behaviour of my fellow tenant. Since then I had grown used to the more unusual facets of his nature, enough to know that I would miss them.

One grows used to the smell of stale tobacco in a room with blinds and windows closed, and tolerant of impromptu concerts that cause the neighbours to hammer on the walls in the dead of night. What Mary would make of my habit of sniffing my food before eating to ensure than none of Holmes's potions and chemicals had migrated to the breakfast table, I could not say. Even the most objectionable of habits that in its day caused irritation, like the constant dressing of papers about an untidy room or the trace of tobacco that clings to one's bare feet when slippers are forgotten, may mellow with absence into fond and lamented memory.

That shadow of regret must have shown on my face for Holmes smiled encouragingly and pressed my shoulder as if to reassure us both.

"Come," said he. "Our adventures are not over yet."

I must confess that my heart was in my mouth as we left the safety of the Northumberland Hotel and set out down the deserted fog-bound street. Barely able to see a hand in front of our faces, we were encased in a bank of echoing yellow filth, which threw our footsteps back at us, magnifying the sounds until it was impossible to distinguish from whence they came. At any moment, I expected Bert and his friend to pounce, and I prayed that they would restrain their instincts for violence for the merry dance we had led them that night until I had a chance to explain.

Finally, when the sense of anticipation had grown to intolerable levels, two large shapes emerged from the fog to stand in our path. The spokesmen of the two with his scarred face and checked-suit still wore the same vile expression of sneering malice I remembered from our previous encounter. To his side, the silent and dutiful Bert stood unsmiling, ready to make free with his fists should we prove less than co-operative.

"A moment of your time, sirs," said his friend. "This won't take but a minute. Dr Watson, nice to see you again. You're a hard man to find, if you don't mind me saying."

"I've had business to attend to," I said stiffly.

"Quite right. We're all busy men, in our own way." He eyed Holmes dubiously. "I should have liked to discuss this wi'you in private, like, seeing as how it's a delicate matter."

"Mr Holmes is fully aware of the situation. You may say whatever you have to say to me before him."

"Ah, well, that makes things easier all round. In that case, there's the small question of a sum of money."

"I have it."

He snapped his fingers and seemed pleased. "As I knew you would. Bert here said you'd try to give us the slip, like your brother did, him being an unprincipled sort of man. But I said: 'No, Bert, that Dr Watson's a diamond, 24-carat, solid gold. He'll raise the money somehow.' And I was right. You owe me a florin, Bert."

Bert grunted something discouraging.

"Now, Doctor—"

"Here, take it," I said, holding out the cheque. "I trust this is acceptable."

"I'm sure it is," said he, "and it's very kind o'you, sir, but you didn't let me finish. You see, fact o'the matter is that we don't work for Mr Bulstrode any more. Turns out he lost all his money dabbling with stocks in some South American country. Well, if he can't pay us, then we don't work for him. In fact, I dare say there's a few gents who'd like a word with him about what _he_ owes them."

I could scarce believe my ears. "But the money?"

"I should hang on to that if I was you, what with you getting married, like. You were good enough to stand us a decent half pint back at that bar, and we drank to your good health an' that of your lady. Well, we'll be wishing you good night. And I shouldn't worry about Mr Bulstrode. He's left Liverpool by now if he knows what's good for him."

With that, they turned and walked away, the tap of their hob-nailed boots receding into nothingness as the fog folded around them. I glanced at Holmes, saw the trace of amusement in his eyes and could not help but laugh.

"An unexpected touch!" said he. "Whoever doubted that there was honour amongst thieves never met those two beauties. Ah, but what an evening, full of noise and fury, ultimately signifying nothing. Watson, would you have any objection if we went directly to Baker Street? I find my constitution has its limits after all and, if you desire my presence at the church tomorrow in any meaningful capacity, I fear I need my rest. Without fear of contradiction, truly may we say, tomorrow do thy worst, for we have certainly lived today!"

* * *

_**Concluded in Chapter Twenty!**_


	20. Chapter Twenty

_**The Case of the Three Brothers**_

**Chapter Twenty: ****Especial Adieu **

I slept little that night. The next morning I was up ridiculously early, in time to see the milkman on his rounds and the coalman shouldering his load on his bent back. I busied myself trying to read, only to find after I had scanned the same paragraph three times that the task was a hopeless one, and gave up to spend my time transcribing the events of the last few days to my journal.

The hour was far more respectable by the time I had finished, and I wandered downstairs to find that the household was already in a state of stir. Mrs Hudson was twittering like an early morning sparrow and mentioned several times how much she enjoyed 'a good wedding'. She did not specify what she thought made a wedding 'good' or not, and I found myself growing irritable at what seemed to me to be undue pressure. I endeavoured to control my ungenerous feelings, made the appropriate noises when she asked what I thought of the hat she intended to wear, and asked if she had seen Mr Holmes, for he was conspicuous by his absence. He had gone out early, unusually so, she informed me, and had made a good deal of fuss in the process.

With little interest in the breakfast Mrs Hudson offered and feeling unequal to anything more demanding than coffee, I returned to my room, finished packing and dressed. Midway through this rigmarole, I heard Holmes's voice on the stair, inquiring whether I had given any thought to rousing myself.

Since the time for the wedding was set at eleven, and the clock now only showed five minutes past nine, I thought him overly anxious. However, on such occasions, punctuality is of paramount importance, and a new worry told hold of my insides that something might occur in the time we had left to have me commit the unforgivable sin of keeping my bride waiting.

Concerned, I hurried downstairs to find Holmes with his back to the fire, a cup of coffee in one hand and reading the morning paper. I did not need to ask where he had been: the combination of black morning suit, white waistcoat and white cravat he wore made my own clothes somewhat humbler by comparison.

We had played this scene a thousand times or more, but never with the intrusive air of awkwardness that pervaded the room that morning. After years of comfortable familiarity, I had the impression of being as stranger in my own home, thrust into the same position as all those clients who had wavered on our threshold, uncertain of their reception when faced with the sharp scrutiny of my friend.

It was certainly foolish and I was sure that whatever discomfort I was feeling was entirely of my own making, the result of nerves and lack of sleep. I poured myself another cup of coffee, told myself that I was imagining things and broke the silence with what seemed an appropriate question.

"You were out early," I said, more gentle inquiry than statement of fact.

"There were several small tasks that required my attention. A summons from the Prime Minister, the need to hire something for this morning's engagement having found myself sartorially embarrassed by a depletion of my wardrobe of late – minor matters like that. Do you know," said he suddenly, tossing aside the paper whilst I reflected that only Holmes could ever dismiss an interview with the Premier so lightly, "that the rates these fellows charge is nothing short of outrageous? It is a wonder to me that the London criminal does not give up his villainy and set up business hiring out clothes. Five shillings for the hire of a coat! And then the audacity to inquire whether I had need of an umbrella, at the princely sum of 2s. 6d. a day – on a fine morning like this! Not that I begrudge the expense, you understand, but I do baulk at having to pay over the odds for something which would have only fractionally more expensive if purchased new. Do I meet with your approval, by the way?"

I nodded. "What did the Prime Minister have to say?"

"Oh, he agreed, but said there was nothing his administration could do about it. A need is being met and if people were content to pay—"

"Not about your clothes, Holmes," I said testily. "Why did he wish to see you?"

"To offer his gratitude for our having saved his reputation and the country from ruin. There was talk of honours for us both, but I refused." His expression became slightly censorious when he saw that I was taken aback by this admission. "Come, Watson, it would have been most hypocritical of you to accept, considering you do not share the man's politics. Besides, what use are honours? Do they put bread on a poor man's table? Now, this," said he, extracting an envelope from his pocket and passing it to me, "is of far greater practical value to a newly-wedded couple."

Inside I found a cheque made out for a sum that made me catch my breath.

"Compared to what we have saved the government in terms of money, honour and lives, it is a trifle," said he. "Still, rather you have, as meagre as it is, than the Treasury, considering the return they expect on their South American investment."

"It is most generous. But what for you?"

"The thanks of a grateful nation." The briefest of smiles touched his eyes. "It is enough, I dare say, although I should have preferred a tidier conclusion to this business. Even now, the dead hand of the master still falls on the luckless. The papers report a death in the Bromley police cells yesterday. A prisoner died of an aneurysm."

"His name wouldn't have been Hancock, by any chance?"

"It would. All very convenient and not in the least believable. That a man who fought like the devil and took several constables to restrain him should suddenly succumb defies reason."

"You did not say that in the case of Jefferson Hope."

"He was not a hireling myrmidon, Watson. Money may buy loyalty only so far. When a man is faced with the gallows, his tongue has a tendency to become loose. Thus another tie is severed." He sighed. "Not that Hancock could have told us much. From him the trail would have led to Styles and from there no further. Our late Doctor of Philosophy has an obituary in _The Times_, by the way. It is the usual story, a distinguished career, talk of some slight scandal that saw him obliged to leave his post, and finally descent into villainy."

"They did not say that, surely?"

Holmes shook his head. "So much _we_ know of Dr Styles. The report states only that he was retired, and yesterday died as the result of an accident at York Minster. Overall, a most unsatisfactory result. That alone renders this case unsuitable for your readers."

"You would have no objections to my writing it up then?"

"Not at all, although I think certain figures in the government might. There is nothing that terrifies them more than being held up to public ridicule. It has a tendency to encourage notions of discontent when the ordinary man learns that the people who govern him are as fallible as he is. By all means keep the notes on file. Who knows but that after we are gone, someone may wish to bring these facts to light? The case has not been entirely devoid of interest after all."

"No, indeed," I agreed. "I shall not easy forget the Case of the Three Brothers."

"What?" he said sharply.

"Three Brothers," I said. "Yours, mine and… Mr William Parks's brother, Mr Swithin Harper."

"_Half_-brother." His features relaxed into a smile. "I suppose it will do, although it is not the title I should have chosen. I should contest the role played by Henry Watson in the events of the last few days."

"Let us say that he complicated matters somewhat."

"Well, there you have the advantage over me. Your brother only haunts you from beyond the grave; mine conspires to do so whilst very much alive." His gaze was drawn to his desk. "I feel his presence even now, pervading these rooms. I entirely attribute it to that watch of his which is still languishing in my drawer."

"When will you return it to him?"

"When he admits that he has lost it. I'll wager that he had his pocket picked and was too embarrassed to tell me. Do you see know why I champion the cause of reason over sentiment? By that one refusal to admit to human frailty, a chain of events was set in motion that near resulted in our deaths and the collapse of the government."

I was secretly gratified by the order of importance in which he placed those occurrences. Then, in the next breath, I was reminded why at times Holmes could be the most infuriating man in London.

"Speaking of human frailty," said he, regarding my appearance with a critical eye, "is that what you intend to wear today?"

"Yes. Is anything wrong with it?"

"Not in the least. I had, however, assumed you would be wearing your uniform."

"No. It did not seem appropriate. That was another life, one I should be happy to put behind me."

"And yet, without it, would you be here today, on the threshold of wedlock?"

"I dare say not."

"Indeed not. You would have been an ordinary general practitioner, with a comfortable if prosaic existence, married to a woman eminently suited to the role of doctor's wife and with a clutch of bawling infants in tow." He finished the last of his coffee before adding his cup to the clutter that jostled for space on the mantle. "However, if you choose to discard the past so readily, it is not for me to question your decision. It is too late in any case to find a tailor to make the necessary alterations. You have, shall we say, 'outgrown' that old uniform of yours in recent years."

"Whatever do you mean?" I said indignantly.

"Really, my dear fellow, do not pretend that you are that same emaciated young fellow who used to lounge around our quarters with all the energy and enthusiasm of a dead dog."

"I most certainly deny it."

"It was not intended as a criticism, my friend. Time has passed and we are neither of us the men we once were. Whatever became of that convalescent army surgeon I once knew, with his bull pups and ships and objections to rows and badly-played violins?"

I laughed. "I fear he came to a bad end. Too much time spent chasing around after an aspiring consulting detective led him into all sorts of trouble."

A rueful smile plucked at the corners of his mouth. "A pity. I rather valued his company."

I found that it took an unconscionably long time on my part to find an answer to that. There had been a sense of vulnerability about his voice that seemed quite alien to his cold and aloof manner, and I did not know how to reply to this change in mood.

"Holmes," I began.

"But listen to us, frittering away the time we have left talking of the past when the present and your future is at hand!" said he briskly. "A little weight improves your appearance no end and today you present the very picture of health. What bride could want more in a prospective husband? How is your leg, by the way?"

"A mild discomfort, nothing more. How is your arm?"

"A slight inconvenience. Between us, with our injured arms and broken fingers and strained muscles, we make two incomplete individuals or one perfect whole. Well, if you do intend to wear that, it would be most remiss of me to send you out looking as though you had thrown on your clothes in a tempest. You would do well to remember that first impressions, especially in the choice of a family doctor, are of the utmost importance as an index of character. If a man cannot devote a moment of care to the appearance of his neck wear, what hope for his poor patient?"

"I see nothing wrong with it," I said, glancing at my reflection in the mirror.

"It is perfectly acceptable for a stable-hand perhaps," said Holmes, as he set about rearranging my tie, "but not for a man about to marry. Have you never heard the story of the morning visitor to the house of Beau Brummell, who enquired about the heap of crumpled cravats upon the floor and to which the valet replied—"

"'Those, Sir, are our failures.' Yes, I have heard that story."

"Then you have no excuse for slovenliness."

"If you do not approve," I said, "I could still get my uniform out of the trunk."

"Has it been aired? Then I think not. We do not want the guests choked with dust every time you move."

"It's not as bad as all that."

"You would be surprised what people remember at weddings. Ask them what the bride wore, and they might be able to give you a general impression of shape and colour. But ask them about some ancient relation and they will regale you with tales of how the odour of mustiness made them feel quite faint throughout the ceremony." He took a step back to inspect his handiwork. "Better," said he approvingly. "An occasion like this demands a certain touch, however."

He darted away into his room and returned carrying a small tortoiseshell box, inside which was a sapphire and silver tie pin.

"By happy coincidence, this meets the requirements of being something both borrowed and something blue," said he, inserting it carefully in the folds of material.

"I rather think that particular rhyme applies to the bride."

"No matter. A groom needs good luck as much as his lady. As I understand it, the borrowed item should be of real and great value, which this undoubtedly is."

"It's a handsome piece," I said. "Who gave it to you?"

"My father."

"Holmes, if this is a family heirloom, do you think it is wise to entrust it to my safekeeping?"

"I would trust you with many things of far greater value than this bauble. If it gets lost, then so be it. The sacrifice would have been worth it, for it certainly improves the appearance of your collar. Moreover, should you one day need an excuse to visit an old friend, its return will furnish you with reason enough."

Before I could answer that, he had manoeuvred me into position in front of the mirror to better inspect my reflection. It was an improvement, I could not deny it. The sapphire had a sparkle to which the burnished silver added inner fire like the cold heart of an icicle.

"According to tradition," Holmes went on, "as your best man, I have to give you a mascot or charm to carry in your pocket. My guide to the _Etiquette of Weddings_ does not specify the reason. In the spirit of the thing, however, this is for you."

He presented me with a slim case. I opened it to find inside a penknife with an enamelled handle, engraved with the legend 'something new from someone old'.

"Holmes," I said, "this is too much."

"Having broken yours, I felt that I should offer a replacement. There may come a time when you find yourself in similar straits and have need of a good penknife. That blade will not snap as easily as the last."

"Then I accept with thanks."

"I also understand that I am to prevent you from returning here once we have set out for the church. That presents me with rather more difficulty. Do you intend to put up a struggle?"

"Do not concern yourself," I said, laughing. "Wild horses would not drag me back. Upon my word, this book of yours has given you some very queer notions!"

"By no means. It offers sound practical guidance for the man about to marry." He plucked a slim volume from the shelf and passed it to me. "Keep it. You may find the section offering advice to married men of interest."

I flicked through the pages, variously smiling and chuckling at the author's over-earnest words. "'It behoves every married man to avail himself of a potting shed'," I read out. "What on earth do you think he means by that?"

"Interests outside the home?" Holmes suggested. "We never value that which is always with us."

"Well, I do not have a garden."

"Nor a roof, if your builders are to be believed."

"Be that as it may, I have decided to waste no more money on the place. There is a connection around the corner belonging to a doctor who suffers from St Vitus's dance that looks to be more promising. I shall make him an offer on my return." Downstairs, the bell jangled. "That would be the cab to take my things to the station."

"Are you packed?" Holmes asked.

"Everything I shall need for a week or so. The rest I shall collect in due course – that is, if my things are not in your way."

He shook his head. "They won't trouble me in the slightest. I won't be here."

I stared at him. "You're leaving?"

"Not indefinitely. My first stop shall be York. A man is dead because he was mistaken for Mycroft and the local constabulary have made little advance in identifying him. His family should be informed of his demise. He deserves that much."

I approved, although there was that about his tone that suggested there was more to this sudden desire to leave London than he was willing to admit. "Then where will you go?"

"Watson, you surely have other things to worry about this morning than my travel plans," said he. "Hurry, man, your cab is waiting. We have not survived the attentions of thieves and murderers these last few days to have you turn up late at the church."

I laughed. "Yes, it has been somewhat trying."

"But not without merit. Remember that only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss."

"How true. Your wisdom?"

"No. The Count of Monte Cristo's. Given the part he has played in this business, I thought it only fair that he be allowed the last word."

He opened the door and looked at me expectantly. I lingered on the threshold, at once both nervous with anticipation and yet reluctant to leave, as if the moment I passed from this room, all would vanish as if the past few years had been nothing more than some magnificent dream.

"Holmes, you will be coming back to Baker Street, won't you?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied evenly. "Will you?"

"Yes. Did you ever doubt it?"

"I never doubt you, Watson. A man who is not daunted by two near brushes with death in as many days is not to be deterred by so trifling an affair as marriage. Well, I have the ring, our cab is waiting and it is my duty to deliver you to the church against all odds. And if we do encounter some such obstacle, I dare say that our experiences of late should have left us well prepared to meet whatever London may throw at us and emerge triumphant!"

**The End**

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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